No Boots At All

Way down in the land of the Antipodes
Where the lights of the camp-fires shine bright on the trees
Bushmen will tell you as night shadows fall
There's a ghost roams the ranges with no boots at all

No boots, no boots at all
Roaming the ranges with no boots at all!




Way down in the city so sinful and bad
There lived a young fellow, a promising lad
He wanted to be a big bold mountaineer
But his mother replied as she tossed down her beer

Our hero, he murmured "Regardless press on"
When she woke in the morning, she found he was gone
And off to the hills went her agonised shout
"You've got no boots at all if you want to bail out!"


He found a big mountain and climbed to the top
And stood on the edge of that horrible drop
He thought of his mother all over again
He could still hear her shouting that mournful refrain

The god of the mountain looked down from his throne
And saw the young climber astanding alone
He said to his angel "Go down with a swoosh
And give that young fellow a helluva push"


The Angel of Destiny swept through the pass
And planted a foot fair and square on his pants
As over and over and over fell he
The angels were singing this sweet melody

St Peter, he stood at the heavenly gate
Checking in drunks coming early and late
The Orderly Angel just dropped in to say
"There's a dirty big climber a-coming this way"


St Peter came down with a bucket of beer
Saying, "Sorry, young fellow, you can't come in here
With thousands of angels to answer your call
You'd be no good in heaven with no boots at all"

The night it was stormy, the hour it was late
When our hero arrived at the Satanic Gate
The little black devils, they spat in his face
To show you, they said, it's a helluva place!


The devil said "Sorry, I can't let you in
Unless you've been leading a lifetime of sin
But how could you wallow, and how could you fall?
You can't be a sinner with no boots at all!"

Now all you young fellows who some day may roam
Be careful to stay with your mother at home
With no one to love him or answer his call
His ghost roams the ranges with no boots at all


It's Sunday night and it's half past nine
We're leavin' one more town behind
The mirrors are showing the day's last glow
As we spin out into the jigsaw flow of life

Up ahead where there should be the thickness of night
Stars are pinned on a shimmering curtain of light
The sky's full of rippling cliffs and chasms
That shine like a sign on the road to heaven


I've been cut by the beauty of jagged mountains
And cut by the love that flows like a fountain from God
So I carry these scars precious and rare
And tonight I feel like I'm made of air