A Wool-Shed Rhyme
By W. M. Fleming.
Once more the shearing-floor resounds
With laughter, joke, and song,
And Con, the ringer of the shed,
Is shoving things along.
The rouseabouts are bogged in Wool;
The tables overflow;
The boss is picking fleeces for
Exhibits at the show.
The dogs are barking down the yard;
The penner-up is dazed;
The pressers' brains might be of wool,
They are so badly hazed.
In strolls the classer chap, whose job
It is to breed the sheep.
"The weight they'll cut next year," he says,
"Will make this lot look cheap."
Con gives a gasp and drives ahead.
"Oh, hell!" the loppies say.
The chaps around the tables wilt;
The pressers faint away.
And as he picks a presser up
The quiet station hand
Says, "All right, boys; don't fret. Next year
We'll press 'em as they stand."
Notes
Published in the NSW newspaper the Sydney Mail Sydney Mail Wednesday 7 August 1929 p. 16.