THE WILD COLLOQUIAL BOY

A larrikin journo from the big smoke Joe Blow hails from Flinders Lane.
Bill's the wild colloquial boy, Joe asks from where he came.
He is happy as Larry to find Bill, a visiting shearer who isn't coy
To sing a chorus in Young and Jackson's like a choirboy.

Come all you deros and dills inked so high,
We'll suck all the jungle juice until the pub runs dry.
We'll stare like stunned mullets out the windowpane
But you'll never hear us complain of no sheilas and no rain.

We've all gone troppo in The Never Never air.
Survive off the smell of an oily rag and always bloody swear! 
Someone's always up a gum tree, crook with a wog, or bluing with a nong,
But she's apples when we get stuck in the slops at our billabong.

In an empty corner Bill points to Bazza, a dingo frothing with foam,
Got caught with jail bait, now running from home.
There's Gazza, a two pot screamer on cold or warm beer,
Laughs like a bushman's clock in your ear.

So Joe, my silvertail mate and stick beak son,
The night's a pup, I haven't yet begun.
Off like a bride's nightie, Bill spins yarns of a goanna's playground….
The legend is all in his mind, and tomorrow's paper round.




Frank Corso