Yer right, it's the mythic Master of the Universe, hisself. Wetting his lips in anticipation of some right royal public mourning, in the trueblue Aussie style of leeching onto the back of any white man's personal tragedy.
And now while round the shearing floor the listening shearers gape,
He tells the story O'er and O'er, and brags of his escape.
'Them barber chaps what keeps a tote, by George, I've had enough,
One tried to cut my bloomin' throat, but thank the Lord it's tough.'
And whether he's believed or not, there's one thing to remark,
That flowing beards are all the go way up in Ironbark.
Is this what you had in mind, T.G.?
Close ...
... collect one cigar, if you can tell me who utters banal crap like this:
"I don't want to rule that out."
Yer right, it's the mythic Master of the Universe, hisself. Wetting his lips in anticipation of some right royal public mourning, in the trueblue Aussie style of leeching onto the back of any white man's personal tragedy.
But, I do not have a theological degree, so cannot comment further.
--
And now while round the shearing floor the listening shearers gape,
He tells the story O'er and O'er, and brags of his escape.
'Them barber chaps what keeps a tote, by George, I've had enough,
One tried to cut my bloomin' throat, but thank the Lord it's tough.'
And whether he's believed or not, there's one thing to remark,
That flowing beards are all the go way up in Ironbark.