In Wooli east of Grafton town

a wedding was proclaimed.

They came from far and near to see

the bride and groom enchained.

The preacher, he was tall and gaunt,

a character for sure.

He took the best man by the ear

and hurled him to the floor.

Standing in his monkish robe

he glowered down and said.

"Any strife from you my lad,

and you'll be good as dead."

The church it was a mighty place

crammed full from cross to door.

The crowd were packed into the pews

and hushed in quaking awe.

The preacher roared "are you all mute?"

"I said good afternoon."

"Good afternoon." They all piped up.

By God this man's a beaut.

The flower girls paraded in

bedecked with floral charm.

They rolled their hips and flashed their eyes;

the bride and groom stayed calm.

Those four year olds would steal the show

if given half a chance,

but things are moving on apace.

The bride will now entrance.

She marches in, tall, fair and proud,

upon her father's arm.

He gives her up to marriage then

before the smiling crowd.

The slinky Swede from Wollongong

comes in to set her mark.

Flashing pearly row of teeth

she makes the wedding spark.

Shining Swede and trembling Oz

stand by the happy pair.

They sign and sign and sign again,

the single life gone there.

Triumphally they leave the church

down mile and mile of aisle

then hurtle to the village hall,

where to the drink they pile.

The traveller hoards swill down the grog

and toast the couple till,

their minds are swirling mist and fog,

while father fears the bill.

Now sleepy Wooli town snores hard

or holds its aching head.

In thirty years they'll go again.

It fills them all with dread.