O Riverina Sheep!

You come from fertile plains
Where saltbush (sometimes) grows,
And flats that (when it rains)
Will blossom like the rose.

But, when the summer sun
Gleams down like burnished brass,
You have to leave your run
And hustle off for grass.

'Tis then that -- forced to roam --
You come to where I keep,
Here in my mountain home,
A boarding-house for sheep.

Around me where I sit
The wary wombat goes --
A beast of little wit,
But what he knows, he KNOWS.

The very same remark
Applies to me also;
I don't give out a spark,
But what I know, I KNOW.

My brain perhaps would show
No convolutions deep,
But anyhow I know