There's a class of men and women who are always on 

their guard,

Cunning, treacherous, suspicious, feeling softly, 

grasping hard,

Yet without the courage to forsake the beaten track,

Wearily they feel their way behind a bolder spirit's 

back.



They will stick to you as sin does, while your money 

comes and goes,

But they'll leave you when you haven't got a dollar in 

your clothes.

You may get some help from others, but you'll nearly 

always find

That you cannot get assistance from the men who come 

behind. 



There are many, far too many, in the world of prose and 

rhyme,

Always looking for another's 'footsteps on the sands of 

time.'

Journalistic imitators are the meanest of mankind;

And the grandest themes are hackneyed by the pens that 

come behind. 



[Instrumental]



If you strike a novel subject, write it up, and do not 

fail,

They will rhyme and prose about it, till your very own 

is stale,

As they raved about the bushland that the wattle-boughs 

perfume

Till the reader cursed that region and the stink of 

wattle-bloom. 



They will follow in your footsteps while you're groping 

for the light;

But they'll run to get before you when they see you're 

going right;

And they'll trip you up and baulk you in their blind 

and greedy heat,

Like a stupid pup that hasn't learned to trail behind 

your feet.



Well take your loads of sin and sorrow on an energetic 

back!

Go and strike across the country where there isn't any 

track!

And I fancy that the subject could be further treated 

here,

But we'll leave it to be hackneyed by the fellows in 

the rear. 



Oh there are many, far too many, in the world of prose 

and rhyme,

Always looking for another's 'footsteps on the sands of 

time.'

Journalistic imitators are the meanest of mankind;

And the grandest themes are hackneyed by the pens that 

come behind.