Henry Lawson Is Stalking Me From Beyond The Grave #2

The Bush Bard is back, and this time he's thirsty.

I had lunch at the club up the road today, and while my companion was waiting in the interminably long queue for food orders, I busied myself (you've all done it – do anything except sit there like a loser staring into space) by reading a couple of old text messages, flipping through the cocktail menu, and faffing around in my handbag. Eventually, out of options, the only thing left to do was read the freakin' coasters.
They turned out to be (no surprise in a Rugby Club) rugby-and-beer-themed coasters. Being possibly the most gentrified of all thick-necked, nose-mashing sports, the images of jerseyed giants were accompanied by snippets of Australian poetry in flowing, loopy script. "Nice", I thought, and quickly perused a spot of Banjo Patterson and Dorothea MacKellar on the cardboard squares strewn about the table.
Eventually I took a sip of my drink and there, underneath, condensation-smudged but clear, was the following:

The glorious words and music
of Australia's song shall come
When her true hearts rush together
at the beating of a drum…

- Henry Lawson.

Yu-huh. I'm like catnip to the old bugger.