Mount Dore
As you drive past the cattle grid,
You can’t help but stare...
A remote mining camp,
With rooms everywhere...
This little oasis,
Is a sight for sore eyes...
A place to relax,
Escaping the dust and flies...
Where you get your own room,
A place to call home...
It’s got everything you need,
but no bloody phone...
You even get a fridge,
Just fill it with beer...
But you need to keep quiet,
As your neighbour will hear...
The camp's like a ghost town,
For most of the day...
It’s not until the sunset,
That the locals will stray...
Where they all will meet daily
At the Mount Dore camp bar...
It is the place where you go,
When you have travelled so far...
You can quench that dry thirst,
With a variety of brews...
Then catch up with mates,
To find out the news...
This is the place,
Where many of yarns will be told,
About the day that they had,
In their quest for that gold...
The truth will be stretched,
beyond disbelief...
As they all drink their fill,
To find some relief...
The noise slowly grows louder,
As the hours pass by...
Then numbers will dwindle,
When finals drinks is the cry...
So it then we will stop
After one final round...
As we all will start early,
Back underground....
Len Newey 2012