by Sapper Bert Beros
Many a mother in Australia,
When the busy day is done,
Sends a prayer to the Almighty
For the keeping of her son,
Asking that an Angel guide him
And bring him safely back
Now we see those prayers are answered
Up on the Kokoda Track,
Though they haven’t any halos,
Only holes slashed in the ears,
And with faces worked with tattoos,
With scratch pins in their hair,
Bringing back the wounded,
Just as steady as a hearse,
Using leaves to keep the rain off
And as gentle as a nurse.
Slow and steady in bad places,
On the awful mountain track,
And the look upon their faces,
Makes us think that Christ was black,
Not a move to hurt the wounded,
As they treat him like a Saint,
It’s a picture worth recording,
That an Artist’s yet to paint.
Many a lad will see his Mother,
And the Husbands, wee ones and Wives,
Just because the Fuzzy Wuzzy
Carried them out to save their lives.
From mortar or machine gun fire,
Or a chance surprise attack,
To safety and the care of Doctors,
At the bottom of the track.
May the mothers of Australia,
When they offer up a prayer,
Mention those impromptu Angels,
With the Fuzzy Wuzzy hair.