For our golden lanyard,
We all have paid a price;
Trudged through steaming jungles,
And paddy fields of rice.

Up steep rocky mountains,
We climbed through driving rain;
Our backs felt like they were breaking,
And our legs grew stiff with pain.

Our skins begin to wrinkle,
And our hands turn black with stain;
But with typical Aussie courage,
We beat the worst terrain.

Some nights we do an ambush,
on some VC track we've found;
And you can bet your bottom dollar,
It's the muddiest spot around.

And with no protection,
From this mud and damp;
We think about the boozer,
And our warm beds back in camp.

Then we're in contact,
And our hearts beat really fast;
We hope to God this contact,
Will be our very last.

When the fighting's over,
And the smell of death is high;
We sweep and count the bodies,
And search them where they lie.

The VC will remember,
All the hidings that they've had;
And when we leave this country,
They'll be mighty bloody glad.

Some days our life is brighter,
When mail arrives from home;
It helps us keep our chins up,
Cause we know we're not alone.

When the 'Op' is over,
And to the chopper pads we tramp;
We smile with thoughts of gratitude,
For a fortnight back in camp.

It seems just like a lifetime,
We're in this rotten Hell;
But we always will remember,
Our comrades brave who fell.

So listen all you civvies,
Who think our lanyards nice;
It isn't something given,
We all have paid a price.

"To my mates whom I miss."