Across the golden, sun-baked plains,
Where ancient red earth breathes and strains,
A heavy tail, a massive foot,
From Macropodidae take root.
They move in mobs across the land,
With grassy meals close-at-hand,
Soft grazers of the shrub and tree,
In quiet, gentle company.
With little gas and steps so light,
They keep the open green in sight,
While tiny joeys, peanut-small,
Find cozy safety from us all.
Revered in Dreamtime, old and deep,
Where tribal totems watch and keep,
Upon the shield they proudly stand—
The bounding spirit of the land.
