| There’s an Aussie boy in Texas
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| And tonight he’s feeling blue
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| There’s a letter that he showed me
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| And I’d like to read it to you
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| It’s a letter from Down-Under
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| From a dad who tries to say
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| All the things he feels on paper
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| To a loved son far away
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| Dear Son, back home it’s springtime
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| And we’re finished with the plow
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| A little rain’d flood the lot
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| Should bring the wheat through now
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| You always loved the wattle
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| Well now it’s out in bloom
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| Guess son, that you’d be homesick
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| If I could send you its perfume
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| Old gramps is getting feeble now
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| And his days are nearly done
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| He’d like to see you before he goes
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| So, how about it, son
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| I met Mary at the sliprails the other day
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| And we yarned for quite a while
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| She’s growing mighty pretty son
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| With a warm and friendly smile
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| They say the neighbours son hangs round
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| That he’s always at her place
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| But I know the way she spoke of you
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| He just isn’t in the race
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| Last night some friends came over
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| And they stayed for quite a while
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| We sang all the old bush ballads
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| In the old familiar style
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| I guess you’ve heard all about the oil strike
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| Well I don’t mean much out here
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| 'Cause when a man is thirsty son
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| It can’t take the place of beer
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| But somehow, son, without you
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| This old place just ain’t the same
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| And it hurts to see your mother’s face
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| At the mention of your name
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| Well it’s getting late, I’d better close
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| There’s a few jobs to be done
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| Yes your old dad just wants to add
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| Be nice to see you son |