T’was Thomas Scott, of Cecil Plains, that caught the flying craze;
He turned away the HQ ute, that served him many days.
He dressed himself in flying clothes, no grease stains to be seen;
And hurried off to Dalby field, to hire a flying machine.
He drove along the taxiway, with a grin both wide and wry;
The grizzled old instructor said “Hey Tomo, can you fly?”
“See here old man,” young Tomo said, “From Dalby to the sea;
To see the most, I cruise the coast, There’s few that fly like me.”
“The perving’s good ‘round Gold Coast way, or so I have been told;
There’s brown nose puppies everywhere, and they’re glorious to behold.
But I’m a chaste and sober lad, so flying is my thing;
So I just give a friendly wave, as they pass beneath my wing;
T’was Thomas Scott, of Cecil Plains, who launched into the sky;
Switching off his GPS, ‘cuz the luddites said “you’ll die!”
He grabbed his map and old wrist watch, to give DR a try;
and when East Kew came into view, he wasn’t quite sure why.
He continued south to learn about, some claims being made in the NES;
of secret coded messages, and stuff that rhymes no less.
There was word of road kill undies, but he soon saw something worse;
He found there’s now a story 'bout him, that’s been written in Mulga verse.
T’was Thomas Scott of Cecil Plains, who turned north just time,
He’s now considered accessory, to a heinous literary crime.
The author ducked for cover, and headed off for rest,
He’s guilty of murdering a classic, an example of Banjo’s best.