There was this young mine manager,
That everybody knew..
He ventured from here from Tassie,
To show us a thing or two...
He’s called the smiling assassin,
And you’ll soon be taken in
With that infectious looking smile,
And charismatic grin...
I’m sure he’s a part bower bird,
That tall and lanky bloke...
As he scours all the declines,
For empty cans of coke...
He fronted up here at Osborne,
We were none the wiser...
I’m here to trim the fat,
I’m called the Vulcaniser...
With the copper price a falling,
He wielded his mighty sword...
Cutting back the workforce,
Which he says we can’t afford...
His patience was rewarded,
Although he copped a lot of flack...
The profit margins were growing,
And soon we’re in the black...
We were all rejoicing,
And the beer begins to flow...
As the mine life was extended,
By a few years more or so...
But the celebrations were short lived,
As word had got around...
That Barrick have had enough,
And its time to shut us down...
Neal he was unhappy,
No matter what he tried...
Nobody was a listening,
Both his hands were tied...
We will always remember Neal,
And all the things he done...
He gave it all his best,
And made us number one...
So now has gone to Porgera,
A pleasant little trip...
And left his mates at Osborne,
Aboard the sinking ship...
Len Newey 5/04/2010