By Sue McManus
The old men laughed when they saw his skirt
Not very clean all covered in dirt
Not a skirt said he but a kilt he quipped
His raised his class of Ginners as he sipped.
Been down the billabong hunting the bunyip
Had a wee look before he had a dip
Then over on the bank he saw a sign
Of a hairy beasts footprints a magnificent find
The old men said beware of the curse
It’s killed before you won’t be the first
People disappear lost forever and never found
His cry echoes in the mist a terrible sound.
Yet some say he protects his own private patch
And keeps the land free of white man’s trash
Two different stories have been voiced
It’s up to the people to believe their choice
McDougal said what a lot of rubbish and drivel
Got up off his camp chair and with a swivel
Picked up his bagpipes tramped into the scrub
Someone said he didn’t take any water or grub
No one saw McDougal for over a year
Search party’s looked but he’s gone we fear
But sometimes in the very still of the night
Mournful sounds of bagpipes resonate when the wind is right
