The trapping business got tough,
The bloody government interfered,
And Old Joe’s livelihood,
All but disappeared.

The greenies said don’t do that,
Sometime in sixty two,
And Old Joe painfully wondered,
Just what it was he’d do.

He joined a building company,
They sold timber and bags of lime,
He got a job driving trucks there,
They put him on full time.

You always knew he missed the life,
The freedom that he had,
And it broke my heart as a little kid,
That sad memory of my dad.

His spirit seemed so broken then,
That’s my memory of his plight,
He meandered fairly aimlessly,
No money to raise a fight.

He had no desire to drive trucks,
It was just something he could do,
And marriage troubles beckoned,
The kids needed feeding too!

A recovery would never come,
Old Joe’s trapping days were over,
And to re-live all the glory days,
Would need a four leaf clover.

I hate the way they shut him down,
Those bastards never knew,
That Old Joe bird trapper,
Was the greatest man I ever knew?

The geography of Lyons road,
Was so great before the boom,
Just Old Joe and the Taylor’s,
And paddocks with heaps of room.

Across the road from our house,
Was, Webster’s, hundred-acre block?
Where Old Joe caught goldfinches,
For Chris Hackendorf to hock.

Scotch thistles formed the landscape,
And water was fairly rare,
But huge flocks of goldfinches,
Darted here and there.

Old Joe he knew the thistles,
Held that magic seed,
On which the profitable little goldfinch,
Would have to come and feed.

So Old Joe he showed some cunning,
And cleverly set his nets,
He knew to catch those goldfinches,
Would pay a lot of debts.

With a great puff of smoke,
And a whole lot of luck,
Old Joe was off trappin’,
In that flamin’ old truck.

With pennies for washers,
And loose bolts as well,
She was always overloaded,
That Transport from hell.

With cages and boxes,
All stacked so high,
Old Joe was all smiles,
As he said goodbye.

The exhaust pipe rattled,
And both guards shook,
He reversed out the drive,
And off he took.

He tackled the hills,
And the drive was tough,
You’d thought the old Chevy,
Had taken enough.

But old Joe and that Ute,
Were a team, true blue,
Nothing ever stopped them,
They had to get through.

As the years went by,
That old Chevy got slow,
She retired from Trappin’,
And so did Old Joe.

There’s a flower bed in my garden,
That blooms but once a year,
And if Old Joe could see it now,
His memory would be so clear.

He would remember how I cared,
About the flowers that he grew,
Because I quizzed him about the colours,
As if he really knew.

I probably irked him often,
As I stood their in his shade,
And let my errant footprints,
Ruin, the perfect rows he’d made.

I followed him with passion,
From the garden to the gate,
I just wanted Old Joe to realise,
He had a little mate.

Soon he would go trappin’,
He never stayed around for long,
But to argue of his leaving,
That really would be wrong.

And when he left for trappin’,
I’d be at my very best,
I weeded all his gardens,
To hope he’d be impressed.

Back he’d come on Sunday,
But deprived of any time,
To notice what his son had done,
To keep the gardens fine.

Well Old Joe was still my hero,
No matter what he saw,
I only wish he was alive today,
And we could do it all some more.