All right you kiss my arses, you bleeding simples, you stay at homes,

Stick yourself by the audio and bend your ears, for I have grievances to tell,

Those of you whimpering and backsliding, I can hear your Aussie groans,

Be patient my fellow rebels, history like this I know too bloody well;

For this is the day I go into bankruptcy, found guilty by my enemy accusers,

And I’ll struggle you bastards; you’ll have my life but not my free spirit,

Rebels fight hard for freedoms; and stick it to sweet freedom’s abusers,

I have no maker or parenting kinds; destiny is closer and I’ll not fear it!
What began as a scrap with the council over the height rules of a shed,

With kitchen knives drawn, ugly abuse has peppered the misty morning,

Inside me a boil of Irish resentment, bursting out the orifices of my head,

And foul words have gushed from my throat and turned into British scorning;

For was it not they, who oppressed my people and drove them overseas?

Neglecting the starving punters ravaged by the Potato Famine,

They who convicted our gamers, transporting them to wherever they please,

Shipping them in yellow and stripe, labelling them Irish Vermin.
But that’s not the way dear listeners, you who muscle legend down the years,

I fought for your rights and though an honest man, I committed dark deeds,

Like arguing and resisting; instead of shouting my mates copious beers,

I sought with my soul brothers instead, to rid our patch of The Empire’s weeds;

Nuisancing and affray we did, bearing our backs to the hurting rod,

To help the powerless, and return them their freedoms wrongly taken,

And be of consequence when judgement comes, and make peace with god,

Though my deeds are out of time, out of place, and thoroughly mistaken. 
What else is there to fight for, when poverty and oppression has been rid?

For when the entire world is goody, and meat and jam are the standards

Of every Aussie man and woman, and every hybrid descendant who can bid

For a home, work and the right to gaze wistfully and peacefully skywards;

I hear of rebel outlaws black masked, riding on two wheels into sunset,

And of hot tempered men regurgitating their pessimism in public places,

With a nod and a wink, the flush of anxiety vanishes without regret,

For the jack of all arguments survives in mouths lined with stacked aces.
The cranked up rumours of me off shoring to India, fly madly into lore,

A new kind of folk hero I am, sticking it up the local prick schemers,

Those so called representatives riding roughshod, them rotten to the core,

I was a better outlaw than these ugly bunches of high falutin’ redeemers;

Suck masters of minor powers, scroungers for pennies, down for a spewey,

Why aren’t they heroes, those who nailed me to the pale bone of justice?

I know of their names; Ricky Paul, Col Mandrake and Black Louie,

Names forever disappeared they are, poor players in a social armistice.
Think of me no more, my comfortable clowns living needlessly in worship

Of the kind of legendary tomfoolery fit for the stupidest bungler I was,

And the projection associated with heroes, surely undermine the mateship

Of needy friends, who live together in harmonious bliss just because;

Let me fade into a history reserved for impulsive numbskulls like me,

And bear me no relevance to changes happening at this very now,

C’mon my special little worshippers, c’mon let my troubled name be,

Kel Nedly, brave heart to the weak; may he yet make his humble bow.