THEY'RE OURS

THEY'RE OURS


My uncle was a soldier in the battlefields of France,
His mates were blown to pieces in a hundred yard advance,

When caught between the trenches, and the shells were lobbing round,
They'd roll a smoke, and listen, they'd say as they ducked down ...

Don't worry, old mate, they're ours,
Don't worry, they'd laugh, they're ours,
As the shells were lobbing round,
They would say as they ducked down...
Don't worry, old mate, they're ours.

At Pozieres, my grandfather, put wounded on his back,
And staggered, in a foxtrot, wobbling down the duckboard track,
As they lumped their mates along, trying desperately for time,
This is what they sang when the shells commenced to whine...

Don't worry, old mate, they're ours,
Don't worry, they'd laugh, they're ours,
As the shells commenced to whine,
Trying desperately for time
Don't worry, old mate, they're ours.

My Uncle wore a tin hat, and the earth around him shook,
Playin' euchre as the stukas bombed and strafed 'em at Tobruk,
As the dealer shuffled slowly, and they heard the big bombs bang,
They'd listen, laugh a little, then you'd hear that joker's twang ...

Don't worry, old mate, they're ours,
Don't worry, they'd laugh, they're ours,
When they heard the big bombs bang,
You would hear that joker's twang ...
Don't worry, old mate, they're ours.

A friend of ours was captured at the Fall of Singapore,
They waded in the mud and slush beside that hungry shore,
Then, working in the jungle, allied planes'd soon be coming,
They'd drop a load of bombs on them, you'd hear the prisoners humming...

Don't worry, old mate, they're ours,
Don't worry, they'd laugh, they're ours,
When the allied planes were coming,
You would hear the prisoners humming ...
Don't worry, old mate, they're ours.

All round my land, Australia, are the eyes and ears of war,
Installed inside our country by America, that's for sure,
There's North-West Cape, Nurrungar, and the Pine Gap Complex, too,
With the first strike trigger ready, mate, how does it seem to you?

Don't worry, old mate, they're ours,
Don't worry, they'd laugh, they're ours,
With H-bombs primed to go,
Ask Bob Hawke, but does he know?
Don't worry, old mate, they're ours.

Words & Music by Denis KevansFrom the book 'The Bastard Who Squashed the Grapes in Me Bag' 1991, by Denis Kevans.