For One In His Mid Seventies

The years are telling on him his balding head is gray The old man in his seventies from the Northlands far away The young man of the sixties his better years long gone And only his great lust for life itself that keeps him living on. Of life he has many stories at the pub as he drinks his ales He talks of his shearing days in Northern New South Wales The shearing sheds were hot and humid as he sweated for his pay In the pubs at night he slaked his thirst that he'd built up through the day. He has had his share of women to his life they came and went And the money that he worked hard for on love and booze he spent He says he has not fathered children though for sure he does not know The man who spent his boyhood near the hill where bracken grow. Of a life of great adventure great stories he has to tell And as an autobiography thousands of copies it would sell To a race of survivors he surely does belong And for one in his mid seventies he is looking fit and strong.