By John Reddin
Good old Harry tells the story
And he tells it rather well
Of the time that he was putting on a show
He was working out of Dubbo
As a man who rang the bell
In a boxing troupe, where you could win some dough
If you went a round or two
With one of Harry's fighting men
You would know you'd earned your money on that night
You see Harry's men weren't locals
And they numbered eight or ten
He had chosen them 'cause they could really fight
They would mix in with the crowd
So you would think that they were there,
To be chosen as some random pugilists
Then some "goading" of the crowd
Assuring everything was fair
Had the local lads all gloving up their fists
There was Jackie, he was eighteen
"Spider" Jones was twenty-two
All the rest were older, one was fourty four!
Harry liked them, they were honest
Dinkum Aussies through and through
And they all helped pull the crowds in through the door.
Then one day an odd thing happened
As they drove from town to town
In the truck that Harry called his "camper van"
It was really an old tip truck
Which was mostly broken down
It was pained Red and White and Green and Tan!
They were moving out of Dubbo
To the next town on the map
And they'd had a bit of Harry's homemade brew
Harry had a few too many
And like any decent chap
He decided that the proper thing to do
Was to pull up in a lay-by
Have a rest and get some "Kip"
So he moved the trafficator, on the floor
But the lever that he moved
Had made the rear end start to tip
And all the fighters started rolling out the door
Harry won't believe the lever
That he moved that day was wrong
And he swears that, cross his heart and hope to die
He was working on a new act
As the "camper" rolled along
He was trying to teach the fighters how to fly
Poor old Harry's passed away now
And we'll never know the truth
Whether he was drunk, or simply having fun
But if you go into Dubbo
And you talk to any youth
They will tell you it's the home brew that had won!
