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© Claude Morris
I've known a lot of bullockies, but one stood on his own,
With a brand of entertainment, that was his, and his alone.
He possessed a quiet humour only few could hope to reach,
Enriched by something that I'd call, a "draw-back" in his speech.
Sometimes he'd start to say a word, but very strange to note,
He'd do the draw-back, as it were, and draw it down his throat.
And of course, a bullock driver could have trouble on his hands
If his bullocks failed to hear him, when he issued his commands.
One day his bullocks wandered just a little from the track,
And a fencepost was endangered, so he shouted out, "Woo-back".
At least, he tried to shout it so all the team could hear,
But alas, his blasted "draw-back" chose that time to interfere.
So the bullocks didn't hear him, and they slowly plodded on,
And he saw that in a moment, the fencepost would be gone.
He tried again to check them, but the urgency and strain
Did nothing for his "draw-back" and his efforts were in vain.
And still the bullocks plodded on, sublimely unaware
Of their driver's silent struggle with the cross he had to bear.
Then his voice returned to normal, but giving up the ghost,
Said, "Never mind -- too-o-o bloody late," -- and over went the post.
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