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.
The lollipop lady and laborer,
Driving to work we can see who it is.
In bright fluoro orange and yellow
Retro reflective people wearing high vis.
There’s vests and jackets and singlets and bibs,
Worn by these people like a fashion design.
Drivers of forklifts, bulldozers and utes,
For safety all day and night time.
Every worksite embraced this vogue of a trend
Begun years ago by a single fire fighter.
Years ago when people just wore normal stuff
But now we all appear brighter.
Call me old fashioned, I like normal work gear
Denim jeans, overalls or blue tops.
Covered in grease or mud you could see
They look good in the mechanic workshops.
But alas we live in an age where we’re blind
To what’s aesthetic, beautiful and nice.
Replaced with high intensive colors of vivid,
We evolved to walking flash lights.
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