Nice Try, Gundagai

A bloke who hails from New South Wales will know of Gundagai. Some guy found gold, or so we're told, in days now long gone by. I grew up there without a care when both of us were nippers: she was my mate - her name was Kate - I used to call her "Kipper". We loved to lark around Yarn Park, and sing Frank Ifield songs, play hide-and-seek on Morley's Creek all golden summer long. I'd glance at Kip (she fielded slip) and try to hoist one high: but quick as thought she'd yell out, "Caught!" or "Nice try, Gundagai!" Her brain was quick, her wit was slick, and ready with a joke. She'd bat and bowl and kick field goals as good as any bloke. Well, time moved on. Those days are gone, and never to return. I've roamed this earth, for what it's worth, and one thing I have learned. In this wide world there's heaps of girls, and some of 'em are ripper, and dark or fair, I've had my share, but none of 'em's like Kipper. I'm not that grand with pen in hand, but I've written Kip a letter: I may be wrong, it's been so long. She may not even get 'er. So now you know the way it goes. You've heard my tale unfold. I'm like those fools with sieves and mules, hell bent on striking gold. I'm a chafing chook on tenterhooks, awaiting her reply. I know my Kip - she's sure to quip, "Oh, nice try, Gundagai!"