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Crazy Mick the Irishman, with trademark bike and overcoat,
wheeling his way back into town, classed as a tarnished silly goat.
His hair was long and curly; spoken words barely understood.
His manner gave impression he's up to no flamin’ good.

Shopkeepers grew an extra eye toward their advertised outside,
watching Mick out on the street as up and down he'd ride.
This man was on outcast; different to the folks they know,
a little dirty; is a vagrant, and he acts a little slow.

Mick’s first stop the butchers shop; bargained for a ‘snag’ or two.
The butcher he felt pity, so threw in an extra few.
This pleased Mick no end as he left the butchers door.
His feast was quick and final; ate the meat been given raw.

The pub through past experience had little time for Mick,
for beer became his nemesis; urged forward his fighting trick.
Too many times Mick’s antics had forced him to the street,
with bloodied nose, blackened eye; always getting beat.

Compromising was the bottle sale - take half a dozen and then go.
Sit over by the railway line and then drink them nice and slow.
Young kids without feelings teased Mick in his toxic state,
laughing as he chased them, for he'd stagger and gyrate.

When Mick disappeared, our town wondered where he went.
Had he found a home! Had he died! Where has his time been spent!
It seems in potato season when the pickers were required,
Mick was slogging in the paddocks where potato tops had died.

The 'swampy' people honoured Mick, for he had no fear of sweat.
He'd bend his back the furthest; earnt the spud farmer’s respect.
They saw a different person than the townie’s man un-trusted.
Hard working in the hot sun; not the drunk so often busted.

Mick perished one cold winter, alone inside a pickers shack.
Long after picking season ended, so what had brought him back?
He must have known his life was ebbing; left for where he felt no shame.
Spud farmers heads bowed 'round his grave - but not one townie came.
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