“Well, fan my brow!” said Bill, pushed back
His hat and looked at Joe;
The quart pot of the jackeroo—
And him a plurry Pommy, too—
Was oval shaped though black;
“Gawd stone the holy crow!”
They sat beside the little creek
That through the bracken ran:
What was the station coming to?—
Just like a Pommy, through and through
“It looks like rain tomorrow week.”
An oval billy can!
Joe built a fire and kicked the coals
Until the flames ran high,
Bill placed four sticks upon the ground,
Their quart pots (noticeably round)
He slid well in along the poles
And stoked with branches dry.
And though they gave the chap a smoke,
And loaned him damper-dough,
And even went so far to say;
“You're right, it's mighty hot today,”
Each thought “the poor darn simple bloke
He simply doesn't know.”
They poured the tea leaves in their palms,
And leant against the rail.
Then, brushing by the Pommy bloke,
As steam was mingled with the smoke,
Strolled forward, till with sudden qualms,
They bit their finger-nails.
“Well, stone the holy crows!” said Bill,
And stubbed his middle toe.
The quart pot of the jackeroo
Was boiling, while the other two
Were stringing beads of bubble still.
“Well, fan my brow!” said Joe.