Lunchbox7

Now if you say a mans a bloke,
And dont call him a "guy",
And say tin and not a "can",
Then our friendship will be high.

And call a crowd a mob,
And never say a "herd",
And it's a stockman not a "cowboy",
'Cause thats a dirty word.

And when we talk of horses
It's a brumby or a prad
Not a flamin' Yankee bronco
You mugs have all been had

We never have a "round up"
We muster up the mob
And say rush instead of "stampede"
Or dont open up your gob

And if cattle they are stolen
Then try to understand
Its not rustlers who're to blame
But Duffers, in our land

And where we keep hour horses
Is not a Yank "corral"
In Australia its a stockyard
And Im a cobber not a "pal"

And all our buckjump shows
Have fallen out of use
Yank "rodeos" are now the go
Its enough to make you puke

And all our top line riders
Wear Yankee hats and chaps
With Yankee shirts and buckles
A flamin load of crap

And past riders who were great
Would look at 'em and laugh
When they saw their Yankee saddles
With Bulwarks fore and aft

And it's a station not a "ranch"
We have in this fine land
Then invite me to a boree-log
And mate I'll shake your hand

'Cause "barbecue" is Yankee
And not for us to say
But boree-log is local
And comes from the early days

And when we greet each other
We say hello or just g'day
Not the Yankee greeting "hi"
That all have learnt to say

And if we're really friendly
then I'm your true blue mate
Not your Yankee "buddy"
That's another word I hate

And when we want some tucker
For chook and chips we try
Not for Yankee "chickens"
Followed by "French fries"

And when I have a sausage
Its with tomato sauce
And not with bloody "ketchup"
Which is American of course

And it's at the ironmongers
We buy our paint and nails
Not a Yankee "hardware"
which lately has prevailed

And our cars they all have mudguards
Not "fenders" and the like
And a bonnet o'er the engine
Not a "hood" cause thats not right

And the yanks they have a "trunk"
But our cars they have a boot
Into which we pack our goodies
And other forms of loot

While motorbikes have foot-rests
Not "pegs" like Yankees do
And we go to the flamin lavatory
Not the "bathroom" when we poo

And running on our railways
Were goods-trains day and night
But now they cal'em "freight-trains"
Will someone see the light?

And we take our holidays
Not American "vacations"
Which is one of many words
That is swamping our nation

And when we go outdoors
Its on a footpath that we stroll
Not a Yankee "sidewalk"
Its time you were told

And when walking or 'riding
We using a flamin track
Not a Yankee "trail"
That word should get the sack

And when a baby's wet
It's a nappy used by mum
Not a Yankee "diaper"
That is wrapped around its bum

And if the yanks go flying
Its an "airplane" that they fill
Another word they've buggered up
Its an aeroplane you dills

And if you want some trousers
Moleskins are what you wear
Not flamin Yankee "blue jeans"
That will so easily tear

And all our aerodromes
Are falling by the side
as into Yankee "airports"
Our aeroplanes now glide

And in Australia its a tin
That holds tucker, paint or drink
Not a Yankee "can"
So think before you speak

If you go into a building
Take a lift to the seventh floor
Not a Yankee "elevator"
Oh, what a flamin' bore

And remember when we went
To the good ald picture show
Not to Yankee "movies"
Which now are all the go

And the language that we spoke
Is going down the shute
And the horrid words "I've gotten"
Are coming into use

And the Yankee spelling
Is adopted by the press
And not a kid in school
Can hold their pen correct

They get in all positions
And clutch it in their fist
The result of trendy teachers
Who should of been dismissed

And where our land was clean
Its now vandalized and sprayed
With more and more graffiti
That greets the light of day

And everywhere you look
The young are wearing caps
Straight from Yankee baseball
With the peak worn 'round the back

And have you seen their trousers?
Stupid bloody strides
The crotch down near their knees
Are their nuts so big and wide?

And their feet encased in something
The like I've never seen
Twenty times too large
With stripes of pink and green

Every item it is foreign
From that country overseas
Worn by some moronic rap group
Just down from out the trees

With rounded sloping shoulders
And a chest that is concave
They lope along the footpath
Like monkeys from a cage

Fair dinkem when I see 'em
As they all go trooping past
I cant contain my mirth
So I laugh and laugh and laugh

But then I start to realize
That we've lost our Aussie land
And there's no one left to fight
Or game to make a stand

We've bred a race of sissies
Who are "counselled" all the time
And instead of taking action
They sit at home and whine

They say that everyone
Is to blame for all their ills
And expect that you and me
Will pay their flamin bills

They're just a bunch of bludgers
And there's very little hope
But the sorry part of it all
Is that the bastards breed and vote

But maybe we will see the day
When the people make a stand
And insist the Aussie way
Is taught throughout the land.


(Edgar Penzig, 2000)