| Where the hills roll away, from a small country town
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| There are hearts filled with sorrow as the word spread around
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| And the jackass won’t laugh, as there’s no jokes to hear
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| So let me tell you the reason for the pub with no beer
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| Broken down on the track, 'cause he stripped out the gear
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| There’s the old grey blitz wagon, the one with the beer
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| And the driver’s near mad, standin' scratchin' his ear
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| He knows just what they’re thinkin', at the pub with no beer
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| When the drover rides out and draws straight by the truck
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| He joins in with the driver and curses their luck
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| «Where's Billy the blacksmith, we could do with him here»
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| But Bill’s moved on to Grafton where the brewery stands near
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| So the drover rides back, with a brilliant idea
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| He rides hard in the saddle till the town’s drawin' near
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| He dismounts in the lane and the dog cringes near
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| And the swaggie’s just leavin' the pub with no beer
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| There’s exitement all round as the drover tells where
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| The old blitzen bus is, on the plain way out there
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| Every man that can ride." says the drover to all
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| «Saddle up, let’s get movin', and bring back the haul.»
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| When the boys rode back in, what a strange sight they made
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| They charged into the pound, like the old light brigade
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| With tow ropes and tackle, they all pulled as one
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| And the old blitz moved faster than she ever had done
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| Soon the kegs were rolled in, one was placed on the bar
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| It filled all the glasses, every jug and each jar
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| Then the word passed around, and they all gave a cheer
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| And there was laughter once more, in the pub with no beer |