In the foothills of the badlandsnorthwest of Broken Hill
lived an ugly hairy Ogre
he probably lives there still.
And in the early evening
Or the middle of the morn
They’d find the bloody corpses
With their throats all ripped and torn.
Some said he was an ogre
Others disagreed
“he’s just a sicko bastard,”
Was all they would concede.
The police could never find him
Nor the soldiers, nor the spies ...
