North into Queensland, Pineapple farms cover the hills.
Ridgewood out of Cooroy.
No electricity, what’s this simplicity.
Sunday tennis all dressed in white,
Tea & Pumpkin scones.
Mavis & June courting so soon.
Brian’s a tall man.
He stands the equivalent of eighteen hands,
A thoroughbred or maybe a Clyde.
He didn’t have anything to hide.
One day he made old Dobbin sway,
His arm had swung he missed & landed on his bum.
What you saw was what you got!
Hail stones like the size of cricket balls crushed the crops.
Move back to Sydney.
Dad N Dave, no just Brian & Mav, kids in tow
Load up the wagon.
They headed for Putney no farms to be found.
Their roots finally planted in Sydney.
Brian & brothers worked the Mobil ships,
From ship to shore,
Various oil products on land needed to be stored.
A man’s man to lug the cables with carcinogenic washing at their feet.
Brian did not worry, on the farm DDT washed down his back.
These chemicals flowed through the veins!
Brian is not one for a song & dance.
Soon another youngen was along.
So for the new start, Kent road had another crop patch.
Veggies of all sorts.
Tommies here, Pumpkins there,
Mavis picked & bottled.
To her despair.
She threw her arms in the air!
Brian, Brian you really are an Irish son,
What clan did you belong?
I will tell you an outsider I’ll give you the drum.
These fellows with brown eyes,
That gently stare, no ill will or temper foul the air.
Only facts & fancy they will pass.
If you try them on you will land wide of the mark!
You will hear it spoken once, thrown into the air.
Don’t even blink or it’s gone.
As they sip on their beer telling Furphy’s with good cheer!