They say it came like a freight train,
That bastard wind from North West.
Tearing the heart out of bushland,
Leaving nothing but scorched earth at best.

They say it raced through the orchards,
They say it shriveled the vines,
With no respect for the farmers,
That bastard crossed all of the lines!

It drove the embers before it,
It filled the air thick with its ash.
The smoke like a huge cloud of locust,
Left no time for wildlife to dash.

And those who got out were left wondering,
Just what they would find on return.
Would anything still be left standing,
Or would it be lost in the burn?

And the radio crackled the numbers,
As the houses fell one by one.
Eighty six burned on that Friday,
And that bastard wind still wasn't done!

Those greedy hands of destruction,
Stretched their fingers out o'er the land.
They smothered the life from the landscape,
In a way we could scarce understand.

And behind in Hell's desolation,
Stood tree stumps smoking and grey.
As we staggered in shock and in grieving,
'Til that bastard wind dwindled away!