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Chorus: |
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Well it's lonesome away from your kindred and all |
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By the camp fire at night, |
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Where the wild dingos call. |
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But there's nothin' so lonesome |
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morbid or drear, |
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than to stand in the bar of a pub with no beer. |
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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. |
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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 |
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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. |
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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 |
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By the camp fire at night, |
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Where the wild dingos call. |
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But there's nothin' so lonesome |
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morbid or drear, |
|
than to stand in the bar of that pub with no beer. |