Hooked on a direction, the road surface less than perfection.
Bouncing and bobbing the leg muscles throbbing.
Tracing the Cobb and Co line, into the outback.
Miles from Cobbora all said with a roar! Mendooran.
Down to the Royal for a beer!
So high the ceiling, air is dry, No Air/Con. to be found.
Barmaid welcomes, here we do cash!
Out back the auto tellers are stashed.
Ladies well seated. Lads to the front bar.
Cricket is on the telly.
But the barmaid is the star.
Eyes she is a greeter.
There is no meter pouring beer and ale,
Conversation never stale.
A polite smile from the Mendooran Maid.
My beer in hand, leaning on the fire place rail.
In walked a ghostly man.
His name was Jimmy.
Where do you hale from?
Around these a parts and a bit farther.
His story was Long and his ways seemed weird.
He wore a Cobb and Co beard all weathered and worn.
No clothing was torn because he was neat.
Stood about six feet.
He comes from the sun as the mail delivery was done.
I said Jimmy how did you die and he gave a sigh!
It wasn't by gun or the blasted sun.
My coach horses faltered and the brakes had failed.
On the Spring Ridge Road.
Not far from the Inn, was 1901.
The brake stick broke.
Down the hill what a spill.
Coach rolled over on its side.
Nowhere to hide!
I lie at Cobbora in the far left hand corner.
My grave says I am Mathew Long.
But Jimmy to you, all the same.
So raise your glass another Long shout!
Jimmy saluted and quietly faded into the past.