A gum tree’s not the same without a kookaburra’s call,
And a bar’s not like a pub alive with Aussie drawl.
You can’t catch all the cobbers, hangin’ out an’ drinken’ booze,
And askin’ for a schooner here’s a battle ya’ gonna lose.

There’s no digger’s here to greet you with greeting full o’ cheer,
Gidday Mate ‘ow ya goin’?” ‘s what I like to hear.
And Hogesie’s not a God over here – he’s just a movie star,
And no-one knows who the hell Strop is, his ol’ sidekick galah!

And no-one loves a sunburnt country, but they all love Aussie ya see,
‘Coz Hoges comes on the telly, tellen’ ’em it’s the place to be!
Sure it’s a bonzer place it is – me name is mud if it ain’t –
And there’s never a dago, pommie or yank, that to go there, just can’t wait!

I love a sunburnt country, but I’m an Aussie, you know,
The land of sweeping plains, I reckon back there I’ll go.
The ragged mountain ranges, bit smaller than the ones here,
The droughts and flooding rains, but I prefer the weather clear.

Yeah, Dorothea Mackeller wrote that poem, “My country”
Sometimes I turn on the waterworks, ‘coz with it I agree.
And no-one ever heard the perils o’ Mick Ginger, Doreen and the Bloke,
When I try to culture these bloody yanks, I often give up hope.

Not one o’ these coots knows ‘oo Banjo is (Mr. Patterson I mean)
And tho ‘e snuffed it years ago, I ‘old ‘im in high esteem.
And ya got buckley’s of findin’ anyone who knows Henry Lawson’s name,
And the wobble board and Rolf Harris – ya chance is about the same.

Speakin’ o’ Rolf, what happened to him, his bush ballads and didgeridoo?
I ‘member ‘im well, the stories ‘e’d tell, and the paintin’s on walls that
‘e’d do.
And there’s Ginger Meggs and Pickering, and ‘is cartoons of the PM,
And all the House, and the Opposition – ‘struth, could ‘e draw them!

I used to think “White Christmas” was referen’ to the sand
On the beach behind me Nanna’s house, or up the caravan,
And who’d o’ thought that Vegimite could nowhere be found,
And me Auntie’s great pavlova – I miss those swirling mounds!

And nobody here gives two hoots about the Queen’s birthday.
But then again who in Aussie does? But at least it’s a holiday!
And who ever heard o’ playing footie with a helmet on ya head?
And all that bloody padding and on plastic grass as well!

No Eadies, Fultons, Rex Mossup’s, or whoever else you can name –
There’s no room for Aussies here in this Sporting hall of fame,
And the Chapels and the Lillies here are things in old churchyards
No wickets, stumps or bowlers – but there’s batters (if they are)!

And the Ashes or the Test Series don’t mean nothin’ at all
To these galah’s who use a bat that’s round when they play ball.
But a Big Ben pie with tomato sauce – favorite cricket ground tucker –
Is as popular here as weak yankee beer is back home in Australia.

And lifesavers here don’t do it for the love or for the sport,
No surf carnivals or Grant Kenny’s, they get paid to do their job.
But Aussie surfers are still world renowned for bein’ number one,
And the sailors aren’t far behind since they won that ugly cup.

Beaches here are dead ringers for home, but there’s somethin’ that doesn’t agree –
It’s the way the sun rises over the land and sets into the sea!
But I s’pose I never crossed the nullarbor, or been to W.A.,
So o’ course the sun’s gonna be different when it rises and sets that way.

And nothin’ comes near the Great Barrier Reef, or the coastal ports at home,
You know the likes o’ Sydney Opera House are world famous an’ well known.
And the coat-hanger across ol’ Port Jackson – a safe an’ massive thing,
Seems much more solid than this Golden Gate that looks like it’s made o’ string.

In Australia a two lane highway was pretty good if it was sealed.
Here six lanes is the least ya find, an’ there are never any lanes clear!
Sort o’ like havin’ a Pitt street all over the place, all the time,
Specially the way Pitt Street is in the arvo’s at about ‘alf five.

To make it worse they drive their cars on the wrong side o’ the road,
And everyone’s out to get you – it’s a bloody war out there you know.
And freeways turn into long car parks every day at about the same time –
All it takes is one good prang and you’ll be there all the bloomin’ night.

And amongst all this bloody traffic, not a panelvan around,
Not Hot FJ’s or old EH’s, not a Holden to be found,
But just like home there’s jap cars here, every where you think of,
But back in Oz we don’t have these huge Mercury’s, Caddilacs, or Lincolns.

These bloody sepo’s seem to do everything in a bigger, better (?) way,
And the cities are so much bigger, ya can’t see the light o’ day!
‘Coz the smog’s so thick, and buildings tall – urban jungle I think it’s called,
And lights and houses as far as you can see, but not enough room for all.

So they stack their houses atop each other, and call ’em condo’s, (you bet!)
‘Bit like flats, but you get to own ’em, and pay fees instead o’ rent.
Switches are all upside-down, and the powerpoints don’t have enough holes, And the loo is always in with the tub, gives me the willies, ya’ know.

Back in Australia we used the bathroom to have a bath you know,
The thunderbox or the dunny was where you went if ya had to go!
And the jumper me Mum knit for me, would keep me warm as toast,
Here you put on a sweater which sounds to me like you’re gonna roast!

And the people here are not too different – there’s every race and creed,
Just like any Aussie city, but there’s so bloody many cities here indeed!
Not too much is different, not too much the same
But I’ll always know, remember and love the land from which I came.