Slim Dusty – Peter Anderson Co (Guitar)

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He had offices in Sydney, many years ago,

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And his shingle bore the legend, `Peter Anderson and Co.’.

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But his real name was Careless, as the fellows understood

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And his relatives decided that he wasn’t any good.

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‘Twas their gentle tongues that blasted any `character’ he had

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He was fond of beer and leisure and the Co. was just as bad.

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It was limited in number to a unit, was the Co.

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‘Twas a bosom chum of Peter and his Christian name was Joe.

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Oh, The office was their haven, for they lived there when hard-up

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A `daily’ for a tablecloth, a jam tin for a cup.

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If perchance the landlord’s bailiff happened round in times like these

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Just to seized the office-fittings. well, there wasn’t much to seize

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And when morning brought the bailiff, there’d be nothing to be seen

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Save a piece of bevelled cedar where the tenant’s plate had been.

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And there’d be no sign of Peter and there’d be no sign of Joe

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But another portal boasted, `Peter Anderson and Co.’

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Peter always met you smiling, always seemed to know you well,

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Always gay and glad to see you, always had a joke to tell.

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He could laugh when all was gloomy, he could grin when all was blue,

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Sing a comic song and act it, and appreciate one, too.

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Glorious, drunk and happy, till they heard the rooster’s crow

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But the landlady and neighbours made complaints about the Co.

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But that life it might be likened to a reckless drinking-song,

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But it couldn’t last forever, and it never lasted long.

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Debt-collecting ruined Peter, people talked him round too oft,

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For his heart was soft as butter and the Co.’s was just as soft.

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But, of course, it wasn’t business only Peter’s careless way.

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And perhaps it pays in heaven, but on earth it doesn’t pay.

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They got harder up than ever, and, to make it worse, the Co.

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Went more often round the corner than was good for him to go.

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`I might live,’ he said to Peter, `but I haven’t got the nerve

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I am going, Peter, going, going no reserve.'

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Peter mourned his buried comrade, feeling beaten and bereft,

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paid the undertaker cash and then got drunk on what was left.

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Then he shed some tears, half-maudlin, on the grave where lay the Co.,

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And he drifted to a township where the city failures go.

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In a town of wrecks and failures they appreciated him.

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Men who might have been, who had been, but who were not in the swim.

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They would ask him who the Co. was, that queer company he kept

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And he’d always answer vaguely he would say his partner slept.

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That he had a `sleeping partner’ jesting while his spirit broke

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And they grinned above their glasses, for they took it for a joke.

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Till at last there came a morning when his smile was seen no more

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He was gone from out the office, and his shingle from the door,

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And a boundary-rider jogging out across the neighb’ring run

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Was attracted by a something that was blazing in the sun.

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And he found that it was Peter, lying peacefully at rest,

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With a bottle close beside him and the shingle on his breast.

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Yes, He had offices in Sydney, many years ago

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And his shingle bore the legend, `Peter Anderson and Co.’,