Well we tried 'em all the babbling brooks, the cooks 
and the cuckoos,
Between them and wilful murders, there's not a lot to 
choose,
Oh we get 'em every season and I am more or less 
resign,
When riding in for tucker, to hear the cook has pulled 
his time.

For the flour is always weepy and the beef is always 
tough,
And no matter what the wages are, oh, they never are 
enough,
They growl about the water and they moan about the 
wood,
And no matter where you make the camp, it's never any 
good.
(Grizzling so and so's)

[Guitar solo]

The offsider's always lazy and the men eat twice as 
much,
As any other blokes I've met and your just a such as 
such,
Oh the beef is always under cooked, the spuds are hard 
as hell,
And what they put in rissoles would be really hard to 
tell.

Oh there isn't any picnic when your bullocks rush all 
night,
flight,
To find the billy cans are cold and the beef all boiled 
to rag,
And when you've had your say old mate, the cook has 
rolled his swag.
(hey!)

[Guitar solo]

We only had one decent cook, he made bread like a 
dream,
He made us soup and puddings with some buns for in 
between,
He never moaned, he never groaned, for two days was 
content,
Till we asked for second helpings and the barmaid 
snatched his rent.

So now I've kind of had it an' when the season thru 
again,
You may look among the ringers but you'll look for me 
in vain,
For I'm sending to the city for a Mrs Beaten's book,
And next year I'll get my own back, for I'm goin' out 
as cook.
(Hey)

Oh we get 'em every season and I am more or less 
resign,
When riding in for tucker, to hear the cook has pulled 
his time