Slim Dusty Men Who Come Behind
There's a class of men and women who are always on
their guard,
Cunning, treacherous, suspicious, feeling softly,
grasping hard,
Yet without the courage to forsake the beaten track,
Wearily they feel their way behind a bolder spirit's
back.
They will stick to you as sin does, while your money
comes and goes,
But they'll leave you when you haven't got a dollar in
your clothes.
You may get some help from others, but you'll nearly
always find
That you cannot get assistance from the men who come
behind.
There are many, far too many, in the world of prose and
rhyme,
Always looking for another's 'footsteps on the sands of
time.'
Journalistic imitators are the meanest of mankind;
And the grandest themes are hackneyed by the pens that
come behind.
[Instrumental]
If you strike a novel subject, write it up, and do not
fail,
They will rhyme and prose about it, till your very own
is stale,
As they raved about the bushland that the wattle-boughs
perfume
Till the reader cursed that region and the stink of
wattle-bloom.
They will follow in your footsteps while you're groping
for the light;
But they'll run to get before you when they see you're
going right;
And they'll trip you up and baulk you in their blind
and greedy heat,
Like a stupid pup that hasn't learned to trail behind
your feet.
Well take your loads of sin and sorrow on an energetic
back!
Go and strike across the country where there isn't any
track!
And I fancy that the subject could be further treated
here,
But we'll leave it to be hackneyed by the fellows in
the rear.
Oh there are many, far too many, in the world of prose
and rhyme,
Always looking for another's 'footsteps on the sands of
time.'
Journalistic imitators are the meanest of mankind;
And the grandest themes are hackneyed by the pens that
come behind.