From The Wooded Hill Of The Weerloo

The man from the wooded hill of the weerloo
The bird known to many as yellow tail black cockatoo
Is finding it hard to adjust to the City lifestyle
From Melbourne his old home many a road mile.

The creek from the high ground is babbling on down
Through the scrubland and paddocks of his small Countrytown
And in his flights of fancy he hear and he see
The grey shrike thrush piping on a black wattle tree.

Like it has been said nothing venture nothing win
To life in the City he will settle in
No future for him in the little Bushtown
Where the creek from the high ground it winds it's way down

Through scrublands and paddocks by night and by day
From where he lives now by car four hours away
Where the boobook owl calls mopoke in the moonlight
And the fox can be heard in the dead of the night.