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Me real name it is Bill Vonbertouche,	
but for short most folk just call me Bill.
Me Mum and Dad say I’m real smart,	
but the girls reckon I’m just a dill.	

But let’s just get this one thing straight,
I’ll tell you first - I hate flamin’ crows,	
‘cause when you’re working five thousand sheep,
them crows bring a hate that soon grows. 

Them crows they flock all ‘round our lambs,
and peck the eyes right out of our ewes.	
I’ve shot heaps and leave them on a post;
Mum sometimes puts a few in her stews.

It’s a lonely life out in the back blocks,
I don’t get to meet too many folks,	
so it worries me when crutchin’ sheep,
and I’m thinkin’ ‘bout New Zealand jokes.

‘Cause I’m only a human with feelin’s,
and sometimes they are pretty strong,
when I think about Jean Merrington,
and doin’ somethin’ with her that is wrong.

But then when I hear that bloody sound,
‘Kar … Kar’ and it’s soundin’ over me head,
all me thoughts go back on flamin’ crows,
to make sure that the mongrel is dead.

It’s a talkin’ point when eatin’ tea,
Dad asks, “How many crows did’ja drops?”
And I would tell Dad all the gory facts,
while we ate spuds with our mutton chops.

But Mum would always change the subject,
like she’s got a soft spot for them crows,
she starts asking me personal questions,
about some things that I hardly knows.

She wants to know if I’m dressin’ up,
and goin’ off to the annual ball.
Each year I tell her ‘what’s the use Mum …
I don’t have a partner, after all.’

But Mum though is rather dogmatic,
for too long she says she’s been harried,
having a son who will not leave home,
and by her thinkin’, should be married.

So she picks up the phone and she rings,
all the stations for miles around,
to see if their daughters have partners;
alas nobody’s daughter is found.

So I sits back all smug and pleased,
and poor old Mum she now surely knows,
while most folks dress up for the ball,
I’ll be in a paddock, shootin’ crows.

I picked up me gun and bullets too, 
and went to drive off on me own,
when Mum shouted from the front door,
“Come back, someone wants you on the phone!”

And like every time, I said g’day,
but then stumbled when I go to speak.
It was a young girl from a station,
who’d only come out here last week.

She wasn’t a daughter out here though
off a station that’s not far away,
she was a niece, who lived in Sydney,
who was out here on a holiday.

I phoned her up near every day,
and I tell you I made sure she knows,
about crutchin’ sheep; and markin’ lambs,
and how much that I hate flamin’ crows. 

She told me about herself as well,
where she works though had me engrossed.
She said she danced ‘round poles on tables,
and I’d never heard of Kings Cross.

Crikey, she was great on the phone,
with a deep husky voice when she spoke.	
She told me I am someone special,
‘cause I will be her millionth bloke.

She’s got me hormones all racin’,
thinkin’ ‘bout what’s happenin’ soon,
‘cause she said, when the ball is over,
we’ll have a ‘good friends’ honeymoon.

I tell youse now me heart is aflutter.
I keep thinkin’ of her with no clothes.
She’s taken me mind off crutchin’ sheep,
and I ain’t even been shootin’ crows.

Now the annual ball’s on tonight.
Mum’s tied me tie, and pressed me suit.	
I’ve got a long drive to Carson’s place,
with them thoughts that are of ill repute.

When I reached the grid of the station,
of Carson’s where Liza is stayin’,
me nerves were jittery and janglin’, 
from thinkin’ ‘bout games we’ll be playin’.

Then I seen a sight that filled me heart,
‘cause up ahead there was somethin’ beaut,
one hundred crows flew in a flock -
with me twenty-two here in the ute.

It was like having Christmas in June.
I hit one crow with every shot,
and crows were fallin’ like black rain,
and I bloody near got the whole lot.

I hung the dead crows on a fence.
Stood back proudly and raised me hat.
Then I done a U-turn and drove home,
‘cause I won’t have fun better than that.
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