Away in a woolshed

Away in the outback, no rainfall for years;
the farmers are battling a drought which brings tears.
The raintank is empty; they don't have town water.
The homestead's a tough place to bring up their daughter.

The cattle are hungry, and each one looks thin.
What's left of the hand feed will soon be done in.
The crops are all stunted, and much of it dead.
The poor battling cocky, his hands to his head


Away in a backyard, with the barby ablaze,
the urban townsfolk seldom feel such malaise.
Their only such worries; their only real fears,
are who'll fetch the coffees, or restock the beers.


Alone in his woolshed, away from his peers,
a farmers is battling, in debt to his ears.
He toiled putting crops in, still he must sell his lands.
In a shed, sitting, sobbing; his head in his hands.


 (c) MrsMyth