Oh sing not of the Kookaburra tree or the purple mountains of dawn,
For my love she lies a-bleeding, this cold and frosty morn.
Oh, my love she lies a bleeding, you’ve bitten off her head,
Her syrup flows all down your chin, and soon she will be dead.
We live inside your pocket, our home a cardboard box,
Our elbows jab into our ears like cattle at the docks,
So spare a thought for our kind, damned by agreement tacit,
And dispute our plight with the men in black, who work at Barrett Bassett.
Copyright © Max Scratchmann. All Rights Reserved