In Sheep shearing language to 'Mark' is to castrate a Ram.
There's a lonely stretch of outback where two trav'lers chanced to meet;
One was heading west toward the setting sun.
And the other rode a taffy mare, direct toward the east,
Well, the mare was more a plain brown, like a dun.
Now the sun was dropping lower and the light began to fail,
There was water in the creek, off to the right.
The old mare was moving slower and began to twitch her tail,
It was time for 'Jack the painter' and a bite.
In their eyes, the fire reflected, with no need to box the creek
They soon had the Billy warming on some stones.
With their stories slow to starting, no one rushing first to speak,
Both were eased back, smoking, stretching out their bones.
"Name's Jack Tranter." said the Westy, blowing embers for a flame,
"John McGovern" said the one that rode the mare,
"Though most women always call me Stick," he smirked as his nickname,
Launched the saga of his manhood in the air.
"I've been down round Cunnamulla, had a spell Windorah way;
And there's a Sheila up in Quilpie that I know."
"Didn't pick you for a shearer mate, more cattle I would say;
Still, along the Barcoo sheds you'll get a show."
Then McGovern topped his tea up, leaving Tranter a fair share,
There was still a bit of damper in the pan.
"No, I'm not a man for shears mate, I've never owned a pair,
Though I'll clip anything I find without a man."
Well, this kind of information fell like stones on Tranter's ears,
He had little time for blokes that liked to skite.
He had very few illusions and he'd worked for years and years
With the kind of blokes that knew what's wrong from right.
But he knew to pull his head in, not to buy into the tale,
Let his silence demonstrate his moral stand.
But the bung was out the barrel and McGovern's brand of ale
Made his flapping tongue a ratbag's one-man band.
While McGovern's tales of conquest droned along like swarming bees,
He had the hero's role in every line,
In which women fell like magic and he brought men to their knees,
Stick McGovern had more points than porcupines.
Tranter's eyes were glazing over and his mind began to drift,
He was further westward, very close to home.
There his Mary would be waiting; he could see her through the mist,
And he damned this work that said a man must roam.
Sudden words which forked like lightning, struck at Tranter's reverie,
Made his blue eyes flat behind his lowered lids.
"Well, I tell you that young Sheila, she took real good care of me;
But I wouldn't be her husband, not for quids.
Just the place to spend the night though if you work the Barcoo sheds
Got a stand of trees, and roof that's painted green;
Must have run out of that colour 'cause the front door's painted red,
But the loneliest patch of dirt I've ever seen."
Tranter rolled his shoulder over, reaching out to stub his smoke,
And he pulled his blanket high around his back.
He just grunted a rough "Night mate" though he thought that he would choke,
But his mind was distant, further down the track.
When McGovern found next morning that he couldn't move his legs,
And he couldn't stretch his hands out very far.
'Cause Jack Tranter's makeshift cutting yard was made from four iron pegs
With McGovern strung between them, like a star.
Well, the mark was quickly over, Tranter did the tarboy's job;
And he never said a word throughout his deed.
And McGovern wasn't talking, just some screaming and a sob,
Though at first he swore and tried to beg and plead.
Then Jack Tranter did the tally for that rung in little skite
As he slung him up astride the taffy mare.
"If you're ever up round Barcoo way, and you need to spend the night;
Don't knock at that red door; cause I live there."
Reg Kear © 1995 Australia.
