You can tell our town’s tradition by the silo’s standing tall.
Rupanyup’s a wheat town, but now there ain’t no wheat at all.
And what’s a bloke to do all day when there ain’t no crop to cut,
When drought sits like an overdraft and your only pub is shut?
The shutting of our grand old pub was like the tolling of a bell,
The heart’s been ripped out of our town, and most of the liver as well.
We just keep on keeping on because we know no other way,
Instead of bagging grain we’re baling sorry looking hay.
Then glad news was spread about, more blessed than the rain,
Two new women reopened our pub, we could socialise again!
One girl was from the city and she’s as pretty as a peach,
She charmed the cocky’s from the field and grace and manners teach.
Her mate was strong and worked back-stage, she once moved props for thespians,
And then we got the bombshell, our blokey pub was run by lesbians!
We were rocked down to our holeproofs by the scandal about town,
You’d got to admit for gossip it was hard to put it down,
Still we kept on keeping on because our pub is still our pub,
And to tell the honest truth they served some pretty decent grub.
Their pride was chicken parma, garlic prawns, it had the lot,
Which Bill ordered as cholesterol with more cholesterol on top.
My missus liked the pretty barmaid, she knew I didn’t have a chance,
We laughed as blokes from out of town got led a merry dance.
Through hard work and perseverance, which we all related to,
They sort of won a place with us, a place that’s held by very few.
We got to meet their funny friends who came up from the smoke,
We shared a different language but we could always share a joke.
Even the arch conservative, a battered old farmer called Hogan,
Was proud to say his new best friend was a pierced nosed, cropped haired bogan.
I guess we knew our look on life was staid and king of narrow,
We could do with more broadacre view instead of same old rut and harrow.
That dismal drought was broken by a three-foot flood of rain,
And all our bales of crappy hay went floating down the drain.
They say that bad things come in threes and we were out of luck,
To follow drought and flooding rain our bloomin’ pub went shut!
For a business run on partnership is only as strong as the pair,
Our barmaid fell for a city chick with a BMW and purple hair.
So now we’re just a poor wheat town bereft of charm and culture,
Bill said the food at the footy club would scarce attract a vulture.
So when you read this letter put our sign on walls and stairs,
In trendy North Fitzroy where girls we want all sit in pairs.
It says “Wanted, two good lesbians, we won’t take anything but,
To bring taste and life and culture back to our pub at Rupanyup!”