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by John Williamson |
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She had her back to him |
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As he walked in through the door |
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He'd been down in the forest |
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He said, "I cut me a walkin' stick palm |
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Down by the stingin' tree |
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Never thought I'd see the day I'd need one" |
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She said, "The real estate people came again today |
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I made them a pot of tea |
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They said we'd fetch a million dollars |
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For our little old 'Rosewood Hill' |
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I guess they thought we might consider |
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What would we do with a million |
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When we own paradise |
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Buy us an acre of sand |
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You tell those eager beavers |
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They won't be talkin' to me |
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This paradise is not for sale" |
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He's the last of the old cow cockies |
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Up there in the clouds |
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Wouldn't white-coast gold shoes love to get |
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Their hands on his land |
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Smell the crispy bacon |
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Spit and crackle on the fry |
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The promise of a brand new day |
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Shake the cloudy blanket |
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And throw it to the sky |
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The valley takes your breath away |
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The crows are perched and waitin' |
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The family dreams of gold |
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Surely soon the old man will fade away |
