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Slim Dusty
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Men Who Come Behind
There's a class of men and women who are always on their guard,
Cunning, treacherous, suspicious, feeling softly, grasping hard,
Yet without the courage to forsake the beaten track,
Wearily they feel their way behind a bolder spirit's back.
They will stick to you as sin does, while your money comes and goes,
But they'll leave you when you haven't got a dollar in your clothes.
You may get some help from others, but you'll nearly always find
That you cannot get assistance from the men who come behind.
There are many, far too many, in the world of prose and rhyme,
Always looking for another's 'footsteps on the sands of time.'
Journalistic imitators are the meanest of mankind;
And the grandest themes are hackneyed by the pens that come behind.
If you strike a novel subject, write it up, and do not fail,
They will rhyme and prose about it, till your very own is stale,
As they raved about the bushland that the wattle-boughs perfume
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Till the reader cursed that region and the stink of wattle-bloom.
They will follow in your footsteps while you're groping for the light;
But they'll run to get before you when they see you're going right;
And they'll trip you up and baulk you in their blind and greedy heat,
Like a stupid pup that hasn't learned to trail behind your feet.
Well take your loads of sin and sorrow on an energetic back!
Go and strike across the country where there isn't any track!
And I fancy that the subject could be further treated here,
But we'll leave it to be hackneyed by the fellows in the rear.
Oh there are many, far too many, in the world of prose and rhyme,
Always looking for another's 'footsteps on the sands of time.'
Journalistic imitators are the meanest of mankind;
And the grandest themes are hackneyed by the pens that come behind.
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