There was an old bushie who would sit and drink gin,
Listen to the music all night of rain on tin.
When morning came he would wake at sunrise,
Go outside his hut and sit amongst the heat and flies,
Throw out a line into the calm river flow,
And wait for the wooden make-shift rod to bow.
Once it did it was time for the old mans tucker,
He would start up a flame and his lips would pucker.
Fish was not the only thing to eat for a feast,
There was also witchetty, snake and wild beast.
Each hard sought after meal bought the man great pleasure,
Out in the bush he was quiet at his leisure,
No other man there to boss him around,
In this piece of heaven he had found.
