In truth it is colder the waterside winter
Than a roving a fugitive life
No one cries harder than a child without supper
At least we've got blankets at night
They read out the names on the wireless each day
The stevedores meet by the towers
To work on their ships with their cargoes to load
If you're lucky they'll give you the hours
There's a man in an old coat early each morning
Grave as a hangman he stands
Says that no one is served by the Government's nerve
It's worse if you work with your hands
The lines on his face are not lines of disgrace
But the lines at the dockside are long
When Port Jackson steamships call you out
You work and work for a song
Work and work for a song
Give me a job on the Hungry Mile (x7)