I saw the headlines in the Herald Sun.
Rowan Dean did a big report on Sky.
Farewell to the quintessential cheeky bastard.
Vale, sweet laughing Jack.
See the droop of the mournful half-masthead,
Wilting lilies on a dusty track.

Old mate fell out the back of the house he
Built on stilts of ancient bone.
No more wry smiles and common cunning,
And no more homespun toughs.
They're shaking in their Reggie Williams now the change is coming,
And it couldn't come quick enough.


So the larrikin is dead, good riddance, fuck him.
Maybe we'll get some peace now he's kicked the bucket.
Sing the bastard down.
He won't be missed.
Get the box in the ground and let's be done with this.


A real hero for the cooked true bluegeoisie,
Every shitforbrains Gerry Harvey wannabe,
Every HR rap sheet motherfucker,
Every wage thief piece of shit,
Every thin-skinned skill-shy bloodsucker,
Every humourless bully in the pit.

Well, old mate's apostles spit acid at the thought
That the rest of us might just be sick of them.
How's a man supposed to get the laughs he's owed,
When the world's so politically correct?
It's the only way of life he's ever known.
Too bad, suck shit, get wrecked.


So the larrikin is dead, good riddance, fuck him.
We can all sleep easy now he's kicked the bucket.
Sing the bastard down.
He won't be missed.
Get the box in the ground and let's be done with this.


So you're original, A-U-S.
So you're made of harder stuff.
Are you gonna take it out on everybody?
Are you gonna be a homespun tough?
I know you wanna take it out on everbody.
Do you really think you're hard enough?


So the larrikin is dead, good riddance, fuck him.
Maybe we'll get some peace now he's kicked the bucket.
Sing the bastard down.
He won't be missed.
Get the box in the ground and let's be done with this.