The Loafers' Club Poem by A B Banjo Paterson

The Loafers' Club

Rating: 2.8

A club there is established here, whose name they say is Legion
From Melbourne to the Billabong, they're known in every region.
They do not like the cockatoos, but mostly stick to stations,
Where they keep themselves from starving by cadging shepherds' rations.

The rules and regulations, they're not difficult of learning,
They are to live upon the cash which others have been earning.
To never let a chance go by of being in a shout, sir,
And if they see a slant to turn your pockets inside out, sir.
They'll cadge your baccy, knife, and pipe, and tell a tale of sorrow
Of how they cannot get a job, but mean to start to-morrow.
But that to-morrow never comes, until they see quite plainly
That it's completely up the spout with Messrs. Scrase and Ainley.

If, feeling thirsty, you should go to take a little suction,
I'll swear they'll not be long before they'll force an introduction.
One knew you here, one knew you there, all love you like a brother,
And if one plan will not succeed, they'll quickly try another.

I knew one poor, unhappy wight, having a little ready,
Entered a Smeaton public-house, determined to keep steady.
A celebrated loafer there determined upon showing him
That he once had the pleasure and the privilege of knowing him.
Through hills and dales, by lakes and streams, he close pursued his victim,
Until the miserable man confessed that be quite licked him.
In vain the quarry tried to turn, pursuit was far too strong, sir,
The loafer followed up the scent and earthed him in Geelong, sir.

The noble art of lambing down they know in all its beauty,
And if they do not squeeze you dry, they'll think they've failed in duty.
But, truth to say, they seldom fail to do that duty neatly,
And very few escape their hands who're not cleared out completely.

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