THE LITTLE BUSH PUB . . .

Smokey ceiling, wooden floor, bar of finest teak
this then is the bush town's cosey litle pub
many stories had been told, if the walls could speak
of generation after generation, was the social hub

Tales of floods, droughts, poor seasons, prosperity
battles with bureacracy, rabbits, foxes, fires won, lost
birth, death, some tragic happenings, just like big family
produce prices, up or down, banks increasing loan cost

Publican, friendly bloke, muscular, by any means big in size
barmaid, redhead, buxom, sometimes a little too rough
he served the regular drunks their beer in blocks of ice
she fixed the rowdy ones, one stare was usually enough

Jack, he'd tell stories, so unbelievable and equally bizarre
Bill naturally voicing his opinion, its all a load of bull
Cockey, perched in cage, screeching, on end of bar
all the others, quietly drinking, shut-up you bloody fool

So they kept on merrily drinking, beer, spirits and stout
paying, in their intoxicated state, scant attention to time
one more, vaguely remembering which way was the way out
let alone driving their car safely home in a straight line

Maybe you've been inside these charming little country pubs
scattered all over in bush towns in this great land
many now turned, at considerable cost, into cold, modern clubs
in their country town's bush setting, they look quite bland