.
There was movement at the Nursing Home for word had got around
that the Neolith Olympics was today
and the medals were all ready, first prize a hundred pounds,
so all the aged had gathered to the fray.
All the tired and bloated oldies, from Homes from near and far,
had gathered at the crisis muster point.
They'd come by bus, by train and plane, and some had come by car.
They'd be stopped by neither frame nor aching joint.

There was Harrison, who got his piles fixed up especially,
the old man with his hair as white as snow.
Now few could keep up with him when he wandered lustily,
he went where no-one else would want to go.
And Clancy of the Overflow came down to lend a hand,
but refused to let go his horse's reins
and last they saw him, he was riding past the hot dog stand
headed for the Darling Plateau Plains.

And one was there, a stripling - could have really used a feast -
like a bantam boxer somewhat undersized,
with a touch of good scotch whiskey, three sheets to the wind at least,
the sort that women mostly will chastise.
He was having dreadful trouble merely standing at upright -
Dutch-courage in his quick impatient tread,
and he used his wheelie-walker navigating one small flight
of stairs, and then fell down and hit his head.

He was so slight and wheezy, one would doubt his power to stay,
and the matron said "This truly will not do.
From the hurdle course my dear old man, please, please stay away.
Those bedpans are too high for farts like you."
So he waited, sad and booze-filled - only one nurse stood his friend.
"I think we ought to let him play," she said,
"I warrant he'll be with us when he's wanted at the end,
for both his frame and he are mountain bred.

He hails from Snowy Rivers, up by Kosciusko's side,
where bedpans there are twice as deep and cold,
where a person's wheelie-walker slips in ice with every stride
and the man who lives up there needs to be bold.
The folk from Snowy Rivers Forced Retirement Nursing Home
to rough terrain are definitely not green,
they use their wheelie-walkers as they through the mountains roam,
and nowhere yet such strong aids have I seen."

So he went. They found the sports ground by the big mimosa clump,
and the teams all rallied with their sweating brows.
And the matron gave the go-ahead, "Folks we'll start with the high jump,
we're all too tired for the running now.
And everyone in wheelchairs, try and wheel them to the right.
Ride boldly, lads, and never fear the spills.
Come, nurses, let us get these damn games rolling before night,
and it's too late and they'll all want their pills."

But the man from Snowy Rivers, his cognition badly lacking,
the sad result of many little strokes,
raced his wheelie past them, and he made the sports ground ring
with his footie cards, he'd stuck between the spokes.
Then he halted for a moment, while he had a private scratch,
then he spied a new escape path full in view.
He did a near three-sixty, then, with a sudden dash,
off into the nearby scrub he flew.

Then fast the nurses followed, and their closed shoes, white and black,
resounded to the thunder of their tread.
And their yelling woke the neighbours, and they fiercely answered back
from windowsills that beetled overhead.
And upward, ever upward, the absconder held his way,
where mountain ash and kurrajong grew wide;
and the matron muttered fiercely "We may well bid him good-day,
nurse, get ready for an ambo-rescue ride."

When they reached the hillside's summit, even Clancy would've pulled.
It well might make the boldest hold their breath.
The wild hop scrub grew thickly, and the hidden ground was full
of wombat holes, and any slip was death.
But the man from Snowy Rivers had completely lost his head,
and he swung his wheelie round and gave a cheer,
then he raced on down the hillside like a torrent down its bed,
while the nurses stood and watched in very fear.

He sent the flint stones flying, but somehow he kept his feet,
he cleared the fallen timber in his stride
and the man from Snowy Rivers' footing never missed a beat -
a truly pie-eyed geriatric glide.
Through the stringybarks and saplings, on the rough and broken ground,
down the hillside at a racing pace he went;
and nobody drew a breath, till he landed safe and sound
at the bottom of that terrible descent.

He was limping rather badly as he climbed the further hill,
and the watchers standing helpless, standing mute,
saw him ply his wheelie fiercely, having trouble with it still,
as he raced across the clearing yelling, "You bloody little beaut."
Then they lost him for a moment, where two little gullies met
near the highway, but a final glimpse reveals
on a dim and distant hillside, the ambulance is yet
to catch him, although closely on his heels.

And he ran them single-handed, till they turned the siren on
and someone finally stopped him in his track,
then he halted cowed and beaten, and he turned his head for home
and allowed the ambulance to bring him back.
With his hardy wheelie-frame he could scarcely raise a trot,
he was blood from hip to shoulder from the gravel.
But his pluck was still undaunted, and his courage fiery hot,
for a long time 'twas the furthest he had travelled.

And down by Kosciusko, where a small pine coffin lays
and a wheelie-frame marks a grave on high,
where the air is clear as crystal, and the white stars fairly blaze
at midnight in the cold and frosty sky,
when nurses tell their stories about one's who got away,
when they share their tales of sadness and of fun,
the man from Snowy Rivers is a legend of today
and the nurses tell the story of his run.
.