There were movements at the stations as the emails passed around
Rudd's bolt of Old Regret had got away
Rumours ran like independants, Murdoch made a thousand Pounds,
and Julia Gillard's cracks began to fray
A Hawker of the Faceless Men came down to lend a hand
on the media cycle he so loved to ride
cracking Whips and Albanese as he Galluped through the pack
It was grand, the way that old spin-doctor lied.
But the hardy little Brisbane bloke could hardly raise a vote
and it looked like he would fail in his attack,
and he strained there, single-handed, till his sides were white with foam
as he begged the squatters (please) to bring him back
And those squatters, who had gathered from their homesteads near and far
stood and shook their heads at Kev in disbelief
When possession still is thought of as nine-tenths of modern law
You'll find it hard to buck off a good thief
Big Red, she knew quite plenty when it came to bucking off
She'd unsaddled Kev not very long before
and now the man so Snowy can only limp away
and stagger to the Outback, stiff and sore.
But late at night, round campfires up around the ACT
where the Faceless Men found Kevin's manners snide
there are those who quietly whisper of the Snowy Man with glee
and the journos tell the story of his ride.
