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An horrific situation happened in a country town.
The districts big employer has closed their factory down.
Twenty men had lost their job; the town had lost its soul.
Not one man was happy about going on the dole.
An application by the council for a grant would surely fit.
Other groups provided funds and the Church threw in a bit
toward a project on the books, where men would have to lodge a week,
clearing scrub for a new dam that will block the Black Snake Creek.
Dougie Ronaldson was widely known as someone who could cook.
These men trusted Dougie’s wares - they won’t eat food that’s crook.
While the gang was clearing scrub, Doug cooked, and too chilled the grog,
while sitting right beside Doug was his faithful heeler dog.
Wednesday I think it was, when a fine upstanding gent.
The local Priest had travelled out to see his Church’s money spent.
He was talking to the toilers who sweated on the Black Snake flat,
then returned to talk to Dougie and he gave his dog a pat.
“The kettles boiling Father; would you like a cup of tea?”
All the other blokes were drifting in - it was dinnertime you see.
They grabbed their mugs and lunches, after they had washed and toweled.
When Father went to take a drink, the dog bared its teeth and growled.
“I don’t think your dog cares much for me” Father’s watching nervously.
“Do you think Doug you could tie him up, I don’t want him biting me”.
“Don’t worry too much ‘bout him Father” said a disconcerting Doug,
“He’s just a little ‘cranky’ - ‘cause you’re drinking from his mug”.
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