The Ballad of Sam Hill

I have easily the best friends in the world. I know this, because I've never got to play the Henry Lawson drinking game in other company, all while having my life 'workshopped' by someone who couldn't understand how it was not entirely complimentary to tell me I'd 'turned out well'.

Happily, I recorded some of what turned out to be a rather epic ballad...

It was a blue September, a morning haze.

With a bloody fist wrapped in a bandage I waited. 
There was not much food. 
A night on the piss had left me in a daze. 
The sunrise was orange. It wasn't breaking my malaise.

But I had mates all round me, and loyalty abounded.

Given the crash in the 30s he was out on the street. No where to call home.

And he was tired. 
A lot of years had passed. And he just didn't know what to do anymore.
The sun would rise. The sun would set, and he would still be there. Just Sam Hill. 

So Sam Hill sat down on the step of the sheering shed and pulled out his rusty old harmonica and played a tune. 

Then he went back into the woolshed and he sheered him some sheep.  
Because that's what men do. 
It was a heavy fleece that season...