It was nowhere to remember, the day that sand hill made its mark,
Four farmer’s sons with a pact of speed, as twilight turned to dark.
The mischievous individuals, with mullets, bellies and blue heelers,
were obsessed with drag racing, in their illustrious four wheelers.
Tough was not about the fighting, or how hard they hit the plonk,
it was about their one-tonne utes, and a mighty thumping donk!
It was a dusty summer evening, when all the mustering was done,
when four brazen lads with red hot utes, agreed to have some fun.
“Let’s race to the homestead”, was the cry from Murphy’s mouth,
his mates took off towards the sun, whilst Murphy headed South.
“Don’t be crazy Murphy, hill sand is your most dangerous of routes;
remember the Sand hill legend! It swallows men, dogs and red utes”.
Fearful but never beaten, Murphy’s mates soon turned around,
chasing the roar of Murphy’s ute; then unexpectedly, not a sound!
later at the homestead, the lads wished Murphy’s Heeler to return,
a cockerel sounded the next day, then their hearts began to burn.
Days of searching with the trackers, round the infamous Sand hill,
No one ever found poor Murphy, his dog; or red ute buried still.
A preacher said he drove off a hill, and flew into a Promised Land;
we say a Sand hill swallowed him, the day of Murphy’s last stand.
two years later, in a country pub, recounting to a patron at the bar,
a camper told of a midnight ghost, a howling dog and roaring car.
So if you choose to take a path that cuts corners off your road,
beware the shortcut may leave souls lost, or bear a heavy load.