Your streets with their “old western movie” grin,
A sepia tone over all who walk about,
Smiles on our faces, worries – without.
Oh, Beechworth! You heard us, as we busked near the Post,
The sun set, wiped your boutiques, as you stood, the finest host.
In water holes, we filled our bellies, water rushing through,
By your lakeside we stayed inside, for sleep we wanted too.
Oh, Rutherglen! You listened closely and some further away,
Through the vines, our voices carried, tired lips, so much to say.
But your happy clappers pushed us through the old familiar sounds,
Such spirit, we could feel it, this Sunday, all around.
Oh, Rutherglen! You lent us your locals, and their brick haven tucked away,
A treat for tired fingers to find such a place and space to lay.
You dipped us in your sweetest fruit fermented juice,
And waved us on our merry way, all well-read and loose.
Thank you!
f☺
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