I rounded the bend in the river, and stumbled into his camp Smoke hung in little misty clouds, on a morning that was damp
Filtered light was dancing in the shadows, coming from a lamp
Baked beans bubbling in the pan, the staple diet of us tramps

He offered me to share his site, I accepted, as I was flush
Humping the bluey like him, there was never any hurried rush
Removing my old swag, I then gathered more wood from the brush
In this endeavour, I was startled, by the flight of a thrush

Shared his beans, I shared tea, and tobacco soon shared pipes
Work was scarce, and long distanced, with no time for gripes
No selections were tolerated. you take it, whatever the type
There's never steak for dinner, maybe damper, or some tripe

Morning came, we parted. in two different directional ways
Hoping that luck, which was imparted, would come into play
He went south, and I went north, a firm handshake and hooray
This time tomorrow, I'll see Tor and Huss up in Drifters Bay

Poet: I only ate Tripe as a kid because that was the only feed on offer. Dripping on toast, brawn was a delicacy for us little grubs back in the 60's.

Ah Drifters Bay!