A few around scratch up some sheep, and run a head or two, and some take tourists round the hills, cant complain about the view. Me Old Man's got a paid job now, trappin' dingoes in the hills, but we aren't allowed to say anything, bout the dogs or what they kill. The government's worried bout the Greens that they may lose some votes. I reckon we should explain it all, and sell the wild dogs coats. The wild dogs are getting more, it ain't what it seems up there.
Mongrel dogs breed fast and mean as snakes, real dingoes now are rare.
So the men they hunt the wild dogs, and cross bred dingoes too, no skins are taken - the're all burned, tally's hidden from me and you. But enough about the wild dogs, let me tell you about this mum, with thighs like weathered telephone poles, and a beam like a bullocks bum. Her eyes beheld a humour, borne of drought and rain, and her face lit up every time she smiled, held me captive yet again. I'll give you a yell she winked to me, when the girls are all on heat. Co's it's a small town this she said to me, and fresh blood here is rare, and blokes like you's are hard to find, and our blokes are all out there.