Deadset 

Exploited proletariat hero or exploiter of pristine country? What does it matter in this, a very blokey place. What you do here doesn’t count. A country town without the country. A two-doctor town jammed blue with boredom and climate. Women are workers’ wives. What you do here doesn’t count. You ain’t born here you ain’t gonna die here. They got no water here. No matter; long shift big bikkies. What you do here doesn’t count. Twelve hours on you need eight- or nine-hours’ sleep. Only gives you three or four to up and have a life. What you do here doesn’t count. There’s the river and then barbeque but really only thing to do; the pub, the pool, the shearing shed. Bucolic stages for the drinking. What you do here doesn’t count. It’s kind of like on holiday. Not any kind of real life. Your real life’s back in Sydney, real life’s back in Adelaide. What you do here doesn’t count. Fly-in fly-out’s you’ve heard them say, ‘fit-in or fuck-off’, and you fit in, you fit in. Fists in gloves off. What you do here doesn’t count. Except when you go home now you go off. Can’t shake the dirt out. She stood up to you and you don’t know how to deal with that anymore. What you do here doesn’t count. Where the bloody hell are you these… days she said you’ve been away. All this time the kids were going mad. She’s cactus. All over red rover. What you do here doesn’t count.
Have another drink mate?
Have another fight mate?
Have a taste of dust and sweat mate?
There’s nothing else here.
​Deadset.