Ow can it rain.’ the old man said, ‘with things the way they are?
You’ve got to learn off ant and bee, and jackaroo and galah;
And no man never saw it rain, for fifty years at least,
Not when the blessed parakeets are flyinn’ to the east!’
The weeks went by, the squatter wrote to tell his bank the news.
‘It’s still as dry as dust,’ he said, ‘I’m feeding all the ewes;
The overdraft would sink a ship, but make your mind at rest,
It’s all right now, the parakeets are flyin’ to the west!’