Dusty was the link between — towns in drought or towns of green.
Dusty was the face of kids — smiles that you can't buy for quids.
Dusty was the station song — where it always will belong.
I've been out in camp and shed — on the track with swag for bed.
Nightime sounds as cattle low — Dusty on the radio.
As a boy at Burringbar — hearing Slim and his guitar.
Over 2MW — ‘Winter Winds’ will cry for you.
Songs for you that sadly sigh — cloudy tear-streaked springtime sky.
Hurt, because it's just not right — that the news came through tonight.
I sang ‘Fires of gidgee coals’ — just to try and fill the holes.
Emptiness within my frame — at the mention of your name.
From Murrurundi came a call — listening in my cold dark hall.
As the voice of an old mate — softly talked of Dusty's fate.
Then he launched into a song — with eyes closed I rode along.
Rain came ‘tumbling in July’ — like the tears I heard him cry.
Staunch as anyone could be — solid as a blackbutt tree.
Warmth and happiness you'd bring — every time we'd hear you sing.
Loved by all from far and wide — cities to the countryside.
People on the lonely track — waiting for you to come back.
Songs to drivers on the roads — cattle trains, container loads.
Play all day and fill each night — warning of the ‘blinding light’.
Cargo loads and endless freight — Dusty travels as a mate.
Tears tonight as they recall — saddened drivers on each haul.
Beaming eyes in faces black — welcomed you along the track.
Little towns or the reserve — where you sang with heart and verve.
You felt humbled by the way — that your presence made their day.
Concerts on the lonely ‘run’ — often was their only fun.
Eager kids on stations far — “C'mon dad, get in the car”!!
Through the bulldust holes they go — in to see ‘The Dusty Show’.
Hail or fire or snow or drought — never contemplate a doubt.
Slim and Joy and all the clan — stick like glue to each new plan.
Inspiration paved the way — for the kids that live today.
Messages received from you — keeping ‘Country’ straight and true.
They will sing in polished boots — you their guidance and their roots.
Keeping live your memory — from the ‘Centre’ to the sea.
Stock whips crack on plain and ridge — 'neath the rock wall wails a didge'.
Grieving with a mournful howl — shivers shot down to your bowel.
Stockmen raise a mug of ‘brew’ — not one dry eye salutes you.
Silence in the campfire night — while your spirit takes its flight.
In the wilga winds out west — as the hot land takes a rest.
Darkness steals the day away — Min-Mins dance in disarray.
Haunting, darting, to and fro — fractured rhythm, tortured glow.
By the sounds and songs now hurled — deep into the spirit world.
Awards? Need I speak at all — you are tallest of the tall.
Accolades throughout the years — well earned praise with ‘Joy’ and tears.
You will always sing for me — with the wind, from tree to tree.
Blowing down the Great Divide — to The Lachlan River side.
Rain and changes will bring back — green and gold upon the track.
Seeds that germinate in sand — poppies on the ‘Ancient Land’.
Colours of the softest hue — pictures painted just for you.
Country bursting forth in praise — homage for your tireless days!