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Oh it's-a lonesome away from your kindred and all |
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By the campfire at night, we'll hear the wild dingoes call |
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But there's-a nothing so lonesome, 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 faraway look on the face of the bum |
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The maid's gone all cranky and the cook's acting queer |
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Oh, 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 breasts 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 sneer |
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As the barman says sadly, "The pub's got no beer" |
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Then the swaggie comes in, smothered 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 to a pub with no beer" |
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Now there's a dog on the v'randa, for his master, he waits |
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But the boss is inside, drinking wine with his mates |
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He hurries for cover and he cringes in fear |
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It's no place for a dog 'round a pub with no beer |
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And old Billy 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, "You're early, Bill dear" |
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But then he breaks down and tells her the pub's got no beer |
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Oh, it's hard to believe that there's customers still |
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But the money's still tinkling in the old ancient till |
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The wine buffs are happy and I know they're sincere |
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When they say they don't care if the pub's got no beer |
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So it's-a lonesome away from your kindred and all |
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By the campfire at night, we'll hear the wild dingoes call |
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But there's-a nothing so lonesome, morbid or drear |
