Song: The Promise Of Arthur ('Arfur') Poem by Dave SmithWhite

As English as the Noble Game,
Australian Coin was Struck.
And minted new as national fame,
For Arfur Sleep had luck.
Born to squalid luxury,
His silver spoon unsucked,
Arfur Sleep soon became
Remarked upon for pluck.
His pluck upon the playing field,
The simple joy of Cricket.
He drove the rising ball of fate,
Back along the wicket.

For Arfur Sleep is known to friends,
To keep his pledges to the end.
And Arfur Sleep vows to defend
The rights and interests of the little men.

The little man; the little man!
The backbone of the realm.
No back-room fix or fiddlesticks,
'wif Arfur at the helm!

Arfur Sleep's an honest bloke,
Despite his toffee pose.
His handicap, a sorry joke:
He's got his father's nose.

His dear old dad was cut-snake mad,
Confined to a private island.
For Arfur done the best he had,
Yet still he met with violence.
His dear old Pa had gone too far,
Murdered Ma and gone 'ga-ga';
His mind as deaf as silence.
Once brilliant dwarf, now burnt red star,
In Sydney's New Asylums.

Arfur Sleep will surely reap,
His father's sheep and land.
But Arfur Sleep, won't sell out cheap,
'cause he's the people's man.

Arfur Sleep. Arfur Sleep.
Success can't overwhelm.
No fancy tricks or fiddlesticks,
'wif Arfur at the helm!