This is an old revision of the document!
Bold Wozziborn.
(Tune: Bill Brink). Dot Butler.
There once was a walker called Why Wozziborn
Who dreamt about climbing from night until morn;
He'd take his friends climbing, the old and the new,
He'd even take charlies who hadn't a clue.
On his first canyon trip a brash newcomer came -
His climbing was poor and he abseiled the same,
He used every gadget both shining and new
To show off the fact that he hadn't a clue.
When it came to long abseils this lad had a toy
Which he'd haul out all smiling with oodles of joy;
Chrome-plated and polished, it gleamed in the sun,
Cooling-fins bristling and weighing a ton -
In wait for an abseil - a descent from the skies -
“Pipeclay's descendeur” was the name of this prize.
It hung at his belt in his gleaming array
Lurking for nylon to melt down and fray.
Steep Davies Canyon has many a spot
For a mighty beaut abseil with quite a long drop
And the swivel-necked swamp-bits all jostle to see
The climbers who gamble with death for no fee.
Now our lad, having come to a strenuous climb,
Adjusted his brain-child around his lifeline,
Flipped off the rope ends, checked the belay,
Gave a spring downward and hurtled away.
O how can I tell of the horror and pain
Of that dreadful descent and his fall into shame
For his britches did strip on the infernal device
Which exposed his anatomy - let that suffice.
Down at the Club where the Bushwalkers go
Whywozzi tells a story and he ought to know;
He says down in Davies a climber resides
Hanging from a frayed rope still held by his strides.