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It was Old Man Smith’s farm this story begins, begins, gets told and ends,
And will never be anything more than a local story that’s told between friends.
You see, the cold night sky kept filling with lightning lighting up the ground,
And after each thunder, there was silence, there was nothing, not even a sound.

The birds, the dogs, the cattle and sheep hid, hushed away in the shed,
All night they slept together, warm in their communal, dry, straw bale bed.
And in the pine house, with the corrugated iron roof amplifying the rain
Sat Old Smithy, in the dark, listening to the lightning, hearing the thundering train.

With his pipe and his friendly can of grog, he sat with his thoughts in his soul
When he heard the thunder call for him, calling for him to go for a stroll.
Now his farm wasn’t flat and easy to walk, it was hilly, crisscrossed with streams.
And if anyone ventured too far in, there would be no one to hear the screams.

What happened is a mystery, there’s no explaining what was sitting by the ridge.
Only his pipe, and a can of beer, by the destroyed, flood broken rubble bridge,
Now, if you listen carefully you can hear the wind sing his voice down the creek by dark,
And animals hear when the sheep walk their path and all the local dogs all bark.

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