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The Lambs’ Express

Edward S. Sorenson

When the outback sheds are shearing,
    And a thirst begins to goad,
There’s a free ride through the clearing,
    With no limit to the load—
            By the Lambs’ Express,
            In your Sunday dress,
    To the pub down the road.

Every week-end it is waiting
    When you knock off at the shed,
And the driver starts relating
    How they’re bound to paint things red;
            And he works you so
            That you’re bound to go
    To the pub—to be bled.

They have bogus grass fed races;
    Or they lure you with a fight;
And they promise pretty faces,
    With a lively hop at night.
            You would go for less
            By the Lambs’ Express,
    To the pub—to get tight.

When the shed’s cut out, and skiting
    Is the order of the day.
You may recognise your writing
    In the I O U’s to pay;
            And they round you up
            To release the pup
    At the pub down the way.

There is cheering, yells, and laughter,
    With ironic calls for tar;
Merry jokes recalled long after
    On some boundary fence afar—
            As you swing about
            In the Lambs’ Turnout,
    To the pub’s dazzling bar.

When your jamboree is over,
    And your pocket’s feeling light,
They will book you for a rover,
    As they run you out of sight
            By the Lambs' Express,
            With a quid, or less,
    From the pub at night.

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