Lotsertime

Aw, chuck the mail bags over there, It's great to have 'em brought by air; But, now they're here, just sling 'em round, Out anywhere, upon the ground. I'll pick 'em up an' make full speed Soon as me 'orse 'as 'as a feed. Delays don't count in this fair clime; This is the land o' Lotsertime. I 'ear 'ow Europe's gone fair mad On speed. But I'm like my ole dad. The things a man don't do today He does termorrer, anyway. So wot's the odds! This speed's all tripe. Wait on until I light me pipe. A spell for yarnin' ain't no crime; This is the land o' Lotsertime. The Melbourne cockies, they don't care. There's always 'eaps o' time to spare. They ain't air-minded like yous blokes From Europe, or them Yankee folks. Why should we be, when all is said? When coves dies they're a long time dead. Why worry while the crops is prime? This is the land o' Lotsertime. So, sling the mail bags over 'ere. I'll fill me pipe again an' clear. I hold one record, 't any rate; I always gets there, soon or late. The mail gets thro', dry stage or wet; An' fire or flood ain't beat me yet. Our troubles 'ow speed records climb In this 'ere land o' Lotsertime.