It´s lonesome away
From your kindred and all
By the camp fire at night
Where the wild dingoes call,
But there´s nothing so lonesome
So morbid or drear
Than to stand in a bar
Of a pub with no beer
Now the publican´s anxious
For the quota to come
There´s a far away lock
On the face of the bum
The maid´s gone all cranky
And the cook´s acting queer
What a terrible place
Is a pub with no beer
Then the stock-man rides up
With his dry dusty throat
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