24/02/2026
Down by the Bemm River, where the gums stand tall and green,
There's a Men's Shed humming, the best you've ever seen.
Old blokes roll in early, with a creak and a groan or two,
Aching backs and dodgy knees, but the yarns are always new.
One fella's got the gout, swears it's from too much beer,
Another's shoulder's playing up—been that way for a year.
There's arthritis in the fingers, hips that click and grind,
But they shuffle to the workbench, leave their worries far behind.
They process venison sausages, crank out pies by the score,
Snitzels sizzling golden—mates, you couldn't ask for more.
A bit of woodwork here, some furniture restored,
While the kettle's always boiling, and the jokes are never bored.
They groan when they stand up, mutter "Bloody hell, that hurts,"
But laugh about their ailments over tea and sausage bursts.
One says, "Me ticker's dicky," another nods, "Mine too,"
Yet they're out there fixing things, and fixing each other through.
At the Bemm River Men's Shed, on Roberts Road so fine,
The old guys gather daily, turning aches to mateship's shine.
Pains may come and go, but the camaraderie stays strong—
In that little tin-roof haven, where the blokes all belong.
So here's to the silver foxes, with their groans and stubborn pride,
At Bemm River Men's Shed, they're keeping spirits high and wide!
