Old Joe was short on words,
Did most things with a nod,
Conversations were like gold,
Unless you’re talking Murray Cod.

Fishing ranked up near the birds,
If you wanted him to speak,
Otherwise he’d go all-quiet,
Say nothin! All flamin week.

Old Joe really loved the bush.
Where chat was rather rare,
For bloody conversationalists,
He really didn’t care.

At Lyons Road, Old Joe shone,
Through his aviaries he’d walk,
I’d be absolutely amazed,
If he ever stopped to talk.

Old Joe there on the verandah,
At Kochel’s with Uncle Paul,
The last time I heard him speak?
More than a minute, I recall.

Old Joe got his wish,
The peace of heaven I’ve heard,
I’d gladly join him tomorrow,
Just to hear another word.