|
Grab your gear - it¡¯s time to take a pen,
|
Working out the western sheds again,
|
From sheep to table, bin to bale
|
Cockies work ¡®em tooth and nail
|
To the chuggin¡¯ of the donk and the
|
chattering blade
|
|
Dusty fleeces - burrs right through the wool
|
The red-eyed wethers buck and kick and pull;
|
Double money for an angry ram,
|
An aching back from a gentle lamb
|
And eyes peeled for a bare-bellied ewes
|
|
CHORUS
|
|
So bend that back,
|
Shear that wool,
|
It¡¯s forty in the shade and the holding yards
|
are full
|
With singlets blue
|
And faces red -
|
A bludger has no place in a shearing shed
|
|
There¡¯s new boys there who seem to fight the sheep,
|
Seem to leave a cut with every sweep
|
Well take your needle take your thread
|
And find yourself another shed
|
The boss don¡¯t want butchers on his board
|
|
CHORUS
|
|
BRIDGE
|
|
There isn¡¯t work much harder
|
Then the work out on the board
|
The fancy new sheds don¡¯t make it easy
|
Cos sheep are just as stupid
|
As sheep will ever be
|
And shearing¡¯s still as sweaty and as greasy
|
|
CHORUS
|
|
t¡¯s not the work that many people choose,
|
Lots of sheep and lots of mutton stews.
|
But from presser to shearer to young shed hand
|
They¡¯re doing their bit in a rugged land
|
To bring to the world Australian wool
|
|
CHORUS
|
|
|
|
-----------------
|
Singlets Blue
|
| Colin Buchanan |
