For One In His Mid Seventies
The years are telling on him his balding head is gray
The old man in his seventies from the Northlands far away
The young man of the sixties his better years long gone
And only his great lust for life itself that keeps him living on.
Of life he has many stories at the pub as he drinks his ales
He talks of his shearing days in Northern New South Wales
The shearing sheds were hot and humid as he sweated for his pay
In the pubs at night he slaked his thirst that he'd built up through the day.
He has had his share of women to his life they came and went
And the money that he worked hard for on love and booze he spent
He says he has not fathered children though for sure he does not know
The man who spent his boyhood near the hill where bracken grow.
Of a life of great adventure great stories he has to tell
And as an autobiography thousands of copies it would sell
To a race of survivors he surely does belong
And for one in his mid seventies he is looking fit and strong.