The Bloke Who Made Beer
Somewhere in Australia,
A long long time ago…
A drover’s cook was drunk on rum,
His face was all a glow…
He had to feed the hungry mob,
But his hampers were all cleaned out…
The tucker wagon was a week away,
They were caught up in the drought…
So he created a sort of stew,
Mainly bread dough in a pot…
But it turned out to taste like crap,
So he left it there to rot…
A few days had come to pass
It lay fermenting in the sun…
If he had only realized,
Of what had just begun…
It was a passing stockman,
Who wandered in that night…
Feeling parched and hungry,
He indulged in this delight…
He quickly scoffed it down,
Like it was his last buffet…
Blood curdling screams of laughter,
Were soon heard a mile away…
They found him in the morning,
Stark naked and up a tree…
It was the strangest thing,
That you would ever see…
The cook was just astounded,
What was in that flamin stew...
So he added more wheat and barley,
And began his first home brew…
The maiden batch was popular,
There was no shortage of volunteers…
All were keen to indulge,
Is this beverage they called beers…
It was a woeful sight,
With hangovers by the score…
I hadn’t seen so many casualties,
Since the last time we went to war…
Each time a batch was made,
It was better than the first…
The flavour was enriched,
To satisfy your thirst…
Now, that how it started,
It’s the gospel truth I think…
Thank god to the drovers cook,
For this golden ale we drink…
Len Newey 2016