The suggestion has been made that the flying boat mail from England should be brought on by fast land plane via Darwin and Adelaide, thus saving about a day and a half on the route via Sydney, with the last stage by train. But authorities so far appear to be apathetic.

Aw, chuck the mail bags over there,
      It's great to have 'em brought by air;
   But, now they're here, just sling 'em round,
   Out anywhere, upon the ground.
I'll pick 'em up an' make full speed
Soon as me 'orse 'as 'as a feed.
   Delays don't count in this fair clime;
   This is the land o' Lotsertime.

I 'ear 'ow Europe's gone fair mad
      On speed.  But I'm like my ole dad.
   The things a man don't do today
   He does termorrer, anyway.
So wot's the odds!  This speed's all tripe.
Wait on until I light me pipe.
   A spell for yarnin' ain't no crime;
   This is the land o' Lotsertime.

The Melbourne cockies, they don't care.
      There's always 'eaps o' time to spare.
   They ain't air-minded like yous blokes
   From Europe, or them Yankee folks.
Why should we be, when all is said?
When coves dies they're a long time dead.
   Why worry while the crops is prime?
   This is the land o' Lotsertime.

So, sling the mail bags over 'ere.
      I'll fill me pipe again an' clear.
   I hold one record, 't any rate;
   I always gets there, soon or late.
The mail gets thro', dry stage or wet;
An' fire or flood ain't beat me yet.
   Our troubles 'ow speed records climb
   In this 'ere land o' Lotsertime.

"Den"
Herald, 10 May 1938, p6