Many a mother in Australia,
When a busy day is done,
Sends a prayer to the Almighty,
For the keeping of her son,
Asking that an angel guide him,
And bring him safely back,
Now we see those prayers answered,
On the Owen Stanley Track.
They haven't any halos,
Only holes slashed in their ears,
And their faces worked with tattoos,
With "scratch pins" in their hair,
Bringing back the badly wounded,
Just as steady as a hearse,
Using leaves to keep the rain off,
Just as gentle as a nurse.
Slow and careful in bad places,
On this awful mountain track,
With the look upon their faces,
Would make you think that Christ was black.
Not a move to hurt the wounded,
As they treat him like a Saint,
It's a picture worth recording,
That an artist is yet to paint.
Many a lad will see his mother,
And the husbands, their weans and wives.
Just because the Fuzzy Wuzzies,
Carried them, to save their lives,
From mortar or machine gun fire,
Or a chance surprise attack,
to safety and the care of doctors,
At the bottom of the track.
May the mothers of Australia
When they offer up a prayer,
Mention those impromptu Angels,
With the fuzzy wuzzie hair.
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