If you thought Wagga was boring,

And you couldn't leave too soon,

Then wait till you hit Dubbo,

On a Sunday afternoon.

You fly in on a Focker,

That dips and rolls and shakes,

But you won't do any better,

Cos it's all the airport takes.

You head straight for the R.S.L.

It's Dubbo's social hub,

The beer tastes pretty rotten,

But it's cheaper than the pub.

So after sixteen schooners,

And sclerosis of the liver,

You can practise freestyle drowning,

In the old Macquarie River.

You could go to Kentucky Fried,

And if you're not too ill,

Go spend the morning shopping,

At Woolworths on the hill.

Yes, Dubbo is a boring town,

Stuck in the dusty west,

It's just the place to go,

If you really need a rest.

The boredom soon envelopes you,

Your pace is like a snail,

You'll soon think it's exciting,

To visit Dubbo Gaol.

But if you're pressed for entertainment,

And there's no where else to go,

Set a chair up in a paddock,

And watch the Sorghum grow.