The Bushman - Poem by Michael Henshall
Twas a stormy summer night, in the middle of the farm
There was a ringer on the station with a stock whip in his palm
He cracked it once and cracked it twice,
He thought that was suffice while all his mates where round the fire
Singin about the good ol shire, as the night went on and wind died off
They thought about the morning, and if there might be another storm warning,
Well the bushman left and hit the hay and woke up in the morning to another stormy day.
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