you're not the only icon to make this country great

bush man pushing dirty dogs to droving,

cattle on the run in a hard man's land.

red sun keeps setting, bush man keeps betting

the money that he's making will see him through the dry.

so i plucked the fucker from the landscape

and threw his skinny white arse in the nearest billabong.

i think that's where i left him.

muscles meeting meltdown as his axe arcs swiftly,

trees disappearing as his hard hacks hit.

never seeing forward, life turned into floorboards,

destruction can be easy when you’re told what's right.

so i plucked the fucker from the landscape and

catapulted his skinny white arse into some old growth forest.

i think that's where i left him.

cocky is the farmer who surveys his harvest,

tossing up his bales as the stacks rise high.

horizons never ending; but he doesn't do the mending

so the harsh brown land keeps spreading and the salt levels rise.

so i plucked the fucker from the landscape and

strapped his skinny white arse to the top of his tractor

then made crop circles till sunset in his golden fields.

i think that's where i left him.