Now the drover's cook weighed fifteen stone and he had one blood shot eye
He had no laces in his boots and no buttons on his fly
His pants hung loosely 'round his hips, hitched by a piece of wire
And they concertinaed 'round his boots in a way that you'd admire

Well he stuck the billy on the boil and then emptied out his pipe
And with his greasy shirt sleeve, he gave his nose a wipe
And with pipe in mouth he mixed the sod and a drip hung from his chin
And as he mixed the damper up the drip kept dripping in

I walked quietly over to him and I said toss that mixture out
And in future when you're working keep your pipe out of your mouth
Oh-oh he stood erect and eyed me with such a dirty look
And he said in choice Australian, get another bloody cook

A cook, I said, you call yourself, you greasy slob made lout
Well you should be jailed for taking work that you cannot carry out
He then uncorked some language and I felt a thrill of fear
As he swung his hairy paws about and said trot your frame out here

In outback brawls there are no rules nor limits to the weight
So I had to squib or meet him with my meagre nine-stone-eight
And we both bounced into action and fell into a clinch,
I put a headlock on him but I couldn't make him flinch.

For hours we fought in deathly grip, swung upper cuts and crosses,
We staggered and floundered in distress like broken winded horses.
Then gaspingly he muttered, “Though I fought all through the north,
You’re the gamest thing I've ever struck, give me a hand old sport.”

Well, I can't explain my feelings, with joy I nearly cried,
As we staggered to a shade close by where he sank down and died.
Now you talk about that salt bush scrap, why it was only play,
Compared to that gruelling battle we fought that fatal day.

And now above his resting place where the grass has grown to seed,
On stone is carved this epitaph for travellers to read
"Here lies the son of Donald Gun, none gamer ever stood,
And he died in dinkum battle with Jimmy Underwood."