Classic Poem

The sheep are yarded, an’ I sit
Beside the fire an’ poke at it.
Far from talk an’ booze o’ men
Glad, I’m glad I’m back agen
On the station, wi’ me traps

An’ fencin’ wire, an’ tanks an’ taps,
Back to salt-bush plains, an’ flocks,
An’ old bark hut be the apple-box.
I turn the slipjack, make the tea,
All’s as still as still can be -
An’ the old black billy winks at me.