He was a wirey looking lad,
stood six foot high, as I recall...
This fella from the bush
that was always looking for a brawl...
His faded flannel shirt,
matched his worn out denim jeans...
He lived mostly on a diet,
of bully beef and Heinz baked beans...
The akubra hat he always wore,
was a little worse for wear...
With sweat stains on the brim,
which covered his short red hair...
His face was tough as leather,
with a crooked looking smile...
He looked like he had be riding,
for many a country mile...
His name was Col from Charleville,
he just came looking for a job...
He was hoping to stay in town a while,
and meet the local mob...
But things didn’t go too well for Col,
as all shall be revealed...
This one night in the local pub
and this old bloke’s fate was sealed...
He had one too many rums that night,
when his temper quickly raged..
He picked fights with the local lads,
who weren’t to be upstaged...
The smell of victory was in the air,
as Col knocked those young blokes flat...
Then he walked back to the bar,
and thinking that was that..
But the local boys rose up again,
and confronted big Col at the bar...
The caught him by surprise,
his mouth was all a jar...
Those local lads did pay Col out ,
he really took a hiding...
It’s no wonder the very next day,
they saw big Col off there riding...
Big Old Col was a quiet bloke,
until he took a sip...
His eyes would go all blood shot,
and he’d drop his bottom lip...
I don’t know where Col has gone,
or how many fights he had...
If it wasn’t for that bloody rum,
he wouldn’t be so bad...
Len Newey 2012