He insisted on camping down by waters edge
We told him not a real good idea at all
He told us he knew all about this country
So on deaf ears our advice was to fall
He said he often woke and fished at night
And that he left fishing lines on the set
So we went back to the four wheel drive
As it was starting to rain and getting wet
We slept like logs with the heavey rain
He had his little tent there to keep him warm
But when we went down to see him next day
He was gone and his tent it was all so torn
We searched around and as well I took a rifle
But we never saw a single sign of him again
The tracks were so very washed away
As that night had been heaviest of rain
Calling the authorities they eventually came
Telling us to leave it all up to them at the time
Beats me what they thought they could then do
They never had a boat nor even a rope or line
Eventually we decided to just drive on home
He was a stranger but nice enough it seemed
His gear was scattered all over the place
While sleeping he had more than a bad dream
Two weeks later I read in a local paper there
That in the area a mile away from that place
Where we last saw him they found enough proof
As they took photos of his ever so watered face
I often think about this guy away back then I do
And wonder why many think could'nt happen to me
We were only fifty yards away that night asleep
And that still lives today within my very memory
Crocadiles are the oldest living types of things
And over all their time time they are much the same
I would give anything to go back to when we met him
That man that day that year that time just once again.