Well it's lonesome away from your kindred and all
By the camp fire at night,
Where the wild dingos call.
But there's nothin' so lonesome
morbid or drear,
than to stand in the bar of a pub with no beer.
Now the publican's anxious for the quota to come
and there's a far away look on the face of the bum
the maids got all cranky and
and the cooks acting queer
what a terrible place, is a pub with no beer.
Then the stockman rides up with his dry dusty throat
He presses up to the bar and pulls a wad from his coat.
But the smile on his face quickly turns to a snear
As the barman says sadly,