Forgotten Aussie Shed

The shears sleep heavy, lethargic and lost, Silent on the cold wooden floor, Covered in webs and dust from the years, That have passed since they clicked to a roar, With each sheep and ewe, and every big ram, In the shed that was life on the land, In the shed where the men shore, two hundred or more, Sheep with their iron clad hand, And lanolin and resin still emanate the air, The walls are still old mahogany brown, But gone are the men, in blue singlets and shorts, Bought from the one shop in town, Now things are quiet, the seasons they go, The shearing shed has gone by and by, And these worn out lonely shears hold all of the memories, Under the dry burnt Australian sky.