Sunday, September 27, 2009


By Darcy Burns

Old Bill the shearer had been telephoned
To hop the train next day,
Had a pen at Mungindi,
An early start in May.

He rolled his swag and packed his port,
Then hurried off to bed,
But sleep he could not steal a wink,
To soothe his aching head.

He heard the missus snoring hard,
He heard the ticking clock,
Heard a midnight train blow in,
Then heard a crowing cock.

At last Bill in a stupor lay,
A’dreaming now was he,
All drawn for pens and loaded up,
He shore on number three.

He grabbed the missus in his sleep,
Then shore her like a ewe,
The first performance soon was done,
Then up the neck he flew.

As he turned to longblow her,
Like a demon now he shore,
With his mighty knee upon her,
And his grip upon her jaw.

As he picked her up and dumped her,
Down the whipping side he tore,
She dare not kick or wriggle,
She had seen him shear before.

He was holding Jack the Ringer,
He was leading Mick the Brute,
As he called for tar then heaved her,
Like a hogget down he chute.

As he reached to pull the Lister,
Now excited, out of gear,
The electric light was shining,
And all was bright and clear.

He gazed out of the window,
Half awakened from his sleep,
Out there upon the footpath
Lay the missus in a heap.

Gawd blimey! I’ve had nightmares,
After boozing up a treat,
And walked without no trousers
To the pub across the street.

But this one here takes licking,
And it’s one I’ll have to keep,
I dare not tell me pen mates
I shore the missus in her sleep.

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