part oneone-eyed nell There's a waterhole, near Tilpa, in a place called Snakebite Bore an illegal bar that serves the locals well, Made of local rocks and iron, with a beaten red-earth floor, presided by a wag called One-Eyed Nell.
She remembers Federation, got a few miles on the clock, She's got wrinkles on her wrinkles, and a hump, She forgets to wear her choppers, and she dribbles on her frock and she measures two axe-handles 'cross the rump.
She's operated business from that boundary rider's hut Since her old mand died in 1922. Instead of heading eastward, she stayed and used her nut selling demijohns and jars of Nell's Home Brew.
It puts lead fair up your pencil, and hair upon your chest it'll take off tattoos, warts, and ingrown nails, Nell swears by it cured her brain tumour and cancer on her breast and stopped that stutter of N-N-Norm's McPhail's.
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