No greater man than old Joe,
Took on the bush in those days,
Flies, mosquito’s and other vermin,
Wouldn’t ever change his ways.

Away for weeks he didn’t care,
Just a job he did so well,
Shoot the rabbits catch some birds,
Bring em! Home to sell.

Give the old girl a quid or two,
Shout himself a bottle of stout,
A pretty fair reward for Old Joe,
The country gadabout.

Snakes and dingoes, crocodiles,
To confront along the way
Just like an aboriginal gatherer,
Part of Old Joes day.

Diamond doves so badly named,
Did not reflect his wealth,
Money can’t buy a bushman’s skill,
Never mind his stealth.

A man that greatness may elude,
Could well be Old Joe trapper,
But in my heart this old man,
Is so famous and so dapper.

Old Joe you did me wonders
The marvelous gardens that you sowed
The bright and breezy aviaries
All there at Lyons Road

The Old Ute in the driveway
On the limestone pad you laid
Just beside the nectarine tree
Where I often played

And the garden rocks were special
I saw you toil so bloody hard
On a hot summers day
As you lugged them round’ the yard

The paling fence was exceptional
You worked five days til’ dark
And you cut every single paling
From off cuts made of bark

Old Joe you did me wonders
As you farmed that urban block
And I thank your memory one more time
For turning back the clock

He never sang or talked that much,
The old whistling was his go,
A little verse of Buttons and Bows,
Favourite song for dear Old Joe.

And when the lines upon his face,
Stretched from ear to ear,
Ya! Knew Old Joe was Happy again,
Drinkin! A rare old bottle o’ beer.

Mum was very pleasant,
Well as pleasant as could be,
With Old Joe cock’ a hoop,
Another baby you’ll soon see.

Happy days are here again,
A rare treat indeed,
Old Joe and Betty smiling,
Another mouth to feed.

Happy would never last that long,
As Betty gave Old Joe a blast,
And he’d pack up that famous old chevvy,
Then head off trappin’, fast.

Thou art missed by me complete,
Thy love never dims in love thy ow’st,
Old Joe thy greatest of men,
A son in passion desperate thou grow’st

Nature’s man Old Joe thy trapper,
Breathe within this Bard ever,
Just your son, complexion faded,
Wander’st love dear man, Never.

Shall I chance thee memory,
Eternal for thy family dream,
Not for fair rememberance,
But death brag thou extreme.

Long live you sayeth I,
Despite, Death proven eternal,
That lease hath no bounds on parting,
Death untrimm’d only external.

It was Old Joe’s favourite river,
The mighty Murray of that time,
Where he spent many years,
When both were in their prime.

If Old Joe were here today,
He’d be a tad flamin’ aghast,
To think his favourite river,
And it’s former glory days have passed.

And Old Joe loved the red gums,
Where the Corellas often perched,
As underneath their canopies,
For tasty Murray Cray he searched.

Old Joe loved the paddle steamers,
That plied their trade back then,
As they headed for Victoria,
Then back to South Australia, again.

But the river held for Old Joe,
A lifelong and unfulfilled wish,
That he never caught that Murray Cod,
Legend, king of all the fish.

Old Joe was deadly silent,
Like a jaguar in the night,
The rock pebblar flitted closer,
Now in his deadly sight.

Trappin’s not for anyone,
Takes stealth and patience galore,
Like the great cats of Africa,
Old Joe had even more.

Hours in the doldrums,
After a pain staking hunt,
Old Joe like the leopard,
Always took that punt.

Wind and heat, further dry,
Never fazed Old Joe,
Food for the table,
Like the big cats agin their foe.

Mouths to feed and driven,
A lion’s determination inside,
Old Joe with steely grit,
And not to mention pride.

Old Joe got up and dusted,
The grass from his rear,
Another successful hunt went down,
His children need not fear.

Old Joe the bird trapper,
Was one of only few,
A rare breed of aviculturist,
Pioneer through and through.

Every thing was all legal,
An established set of rules,
Good trappers like Old Joe,
Could never be taken as fools.

He did’nt buck the system,
Or use capture methods cruel,
Old Joe developed ground nets,
A gentle trapping tool.

Old Joe handled a million birds,
Soft hands amid the fear,
For he was much more frightened,
Than the bird he held so dear.

Experts in this world are rare,
As Old Joe was in his field,
The greatest trapper in the world,
And in history, his place is sealed.

Up at five every morning,
Never missed a beat,
Set your clock by old Joe,
Extreme cold or heat.

First thing was black tea,
And then anything with toast,
Then he’d roll a cigarette,
And to the aviaries, he’d coast.

Seed and water all the birds,
And pick a little green,
The closest thing to nature,
That you have ever seen.

Old Joe’s aviaries were replicas,
And the difference so untold,
Of a likeness for the aussie bush,
Where native birds grew old.

A gentle touch and loving hand,
He offered to his birds,
You knew this was his greatest love,
Only kindness in his words.

He cared not for greenies,
And complaints that they filed,
Old Joe’s birds were far better off,
Than any in the wild.

When Old Joe sold that place,
I’m sure he sold his soul,
He lost his passion for living,
And it sadly took its toll.

There he was by default,
A true Aussie Pioneer,
Old Joe Bird Trapper,
T’was war that bought im’ ere’

Malta on the threshold,
How could he ever know?
Thirteen years of age,
And Hitler on the go,

The song of Mussolini,
Bombs performed the bass,
Germans and Italians,
Wartime concert en mass.

Load the ships wise men,
The war is on for sure,
At least save the children,
To some foreign shore.

Australia, America, and Ireland,
The kids we send to you,
Future hope of this island,
And we will fight for you.

Fuel depot for this war,
Just to help the Brits,
And the bombers on the blitzkrieg,
Spitfire versus Messer Schmitt.

How many Old Joe’s knew,
Of the real family loss,
That stayed behind in Malta,
Just to win the cross.

And you see today the history,
Of kids like poor Old Joe,
Who made it in Australia?
And gave his kids a go.

Weekends off were never wasted,
Certainly not with Old Joe,
He’d head off early to the tip,
He knew exactly where to go.

The old Ute had a pleasant hum,
As it left unladen, from Lyons road,
And Old Joe whistled a broken tune,
For the treasures that he bode.

Trash and treasure in abundance,
A smorgasbord of junk,
Old Joe had a use for everything,
Even stuff that stunk.

Home he’d come overloaded,
The old Ute would be sprung,
And when he undid all the ropes,
Up she’d go a wrung.

Timber and steel for the aviaries,
And all that rusty old wire,
Never bothered good Old Joe,
It simply set his heart on fire.

To Old Joe the tip was heaven,
And he’d have gone there everyday,
If it wasn’t for the trappin’,
That was always takin’ im’ away.

He built fences, sheds and aviaries,
From a tip he scrounged so well,
And after they were painted,
Old Joe said they were swell.

He never wasted money,
And he collected bits of this and that,
But what Old Joe did with rubbish,
You’d have to raise to him ya’ hat.

Now Old Joe, there was no doubt,
Built Lyons Road a treat,
And most of it was done with rubbish,
From that tip just down the street.

And when he finally left that place,
Everything was neat and trim,
A credit to Old Joe’s persistence,
To fight the odds and win.