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When it's all said 'n done, with yer life nearly gone, and on thinkin'
 yer past mistakes over,
Tho' drinkin's no sin, it's what y'pour in, and I think I would rather
 stay sober.

I know of a man who can count on one hand the schooners he's 'ad
 since 'is birth!
(Commendable, true, but the truth is, mind you, there's not many
 like 'im on this earth.)

I know many more (not 'ere anymore) who have drunk 'emselves into
 the ground,
And where they now lie on their Eternal Dry, rare flora indeed may
 be found.

Take that species of clover, sub-species 'hangover', which no worker
 bee will go near
Since one of their kind was smashed out've his mind from a brush
 with the pollen last year.

Or the strain of tall wheat the grasshoppers won't eat 'cause it flattens
 their hop to a stumble,
Or that rare purple flower which hour upon hour does nothing but
 hiccup and mumble.

There's a long skinny vine with an odour like wine which keeps
 fallin' on other plants' necks,
And when they complain it can be a real pain and start dropping
 big hints about Sex.

An' some truculent trees, carryin' on that the breeze has the force of
 a bloody typhoon,
An' the way that they're going' their roots'll be showin' 'less some
 bugger does something soon!

There's a spotted bush orchid which finds upright awkward so has
 managed to grow upside down,
An' its mate, a bush lily, which finds this so silly it keeps crackin' up
 on the ground.

An' I've seen an old plant which grows at a slant, I'd say about thirty
It can't do very much, only dribble and such, but it can do a limp-fall
 with ease.

And God only knows, there's even a rose with its petals as pink as
It flowers whatever in all kinds of weather, but the growth in its
 lamina's terminal.

There's a type of green moss which reclines on a rock and sings
 portions of old Irish ballads,
And an overgrown lettuce the colour of jaundice that no-one would
 want for their salads.

You're quite free to decide that the things I've described are
 atrocious, abnormal and alien;
I've found when I'm there, though these plants may be rare, that the
 lot are still strangely Australian.

But we'll go one last shout; I'm about to pass out and tomorrow's me
 final hangover,
'Cause when all's said 'n done, an' yer mates are all gone, a bloke may
 as well remain sober.

Copyright; Pam Harris



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