This was penned spontaneously by Murray Hartin (bush poet) on the 1.9.94 to celebrate the daring feat of 'Mad Mick' Hanslow on the last leg of the coach trip to the Birdsville Races, in which he broke his leg, which had to be rebroken and set in Brisbane on his return a week later.
 

On the Road to Birdsville

I've got dust right up my nostrils,
My eyes are full of much,
And my underarms could kill a mongrel dog.

My tail bone's not happy,
There's grease all through my hair
And my liver's just surrendered to the grog.

We pulled out of Goondiwindi
At eight o'clock on Wednesday -
I've been on this bus fifteen bloody hours!

With forty drunken heathens,
All with breath like skunks in season,
And desperately in need of flamin' showers.

We've just passed through Betoota
Where this crazy dingo rooter
Climbed up the roof and dropped his flamin' dacks.

T'was a filthy exhibition
From a man in his condition -
He was suffering a haemorrhoid attach.

To wipe it from my mind
I thought I'd best get bloody blind,
And grab another beer and join the other bastards!

You see, we're off to Birdsville races
To all get off our faces -
We won't be happy till we're well and truly plastered!

See there's a method of attack
When you hit the Birdsville Track -
The grog and smokes and swearing is a must!

Now I can take the booze and greasy hair
And the dirty underwear -
But I've had enough of this f'in dust.