| Well it’s lonesome away from your kindred and all
|
| By the camp fire at night
|
| Where the wild dingos call
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| But there’s nothin' so lonesome
|
| Morbid or drear
|
| Than to stand in the bar of a pub with no beer
|
| Now the publican’s anxious for the quota to come
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| And there’s a far away look on the face of the bum
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| The maids got all cranky and
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| And the cooks acting queer
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| What a terrible place, is a pub with no beer
|
| Then the stockman rides up with his dry dusty throat
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| He presses up to the bar and pulls a wad from his coat
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| But the smile on his face quickly turns to a snear
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| As the barman says sadly
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| «The pubs got no beer.»
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| Then the swaggy comes in smoothered in dust and flies
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| He throws down his roll and rubs the sweat from his eyes
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| But when he is told he says «what's this I hear»
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| I’ve trudged fifty flamin' miles
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| To a pub with no beer
|
| Now there’s a dog on the veranda for his master he waits
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| But the boss is inside drinkin' wine with his mates
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| He hurries for cover and he cringes with fear
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| It’s no place for a dog
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| Round a pub with no beer
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| And old Billie the Blacksmith, the first time in his life
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| Why he’s gone home cold sober to his darling wife
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| He walks in the kitchen she says your early Bill dear
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| But then he breaks down and he tells her
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| The pub’s got no beer
|
| Well its hard to believe that there’s customers still
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| But the money’s still tinkling in the old ancient til
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| The wine dots are happy and I know they’re sincere
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| When they say they don’t care if the pubs got no beer
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| So it’s a lonesome away from your kindred and all
|
| By the camp fire at night
|
| Where the wild dingos call
|
| But there’s nothin' so lonesome
|
| Morbid or drear
|
| Than to stand in the bar of that pub with no beer |