When January's hot and the grass is dry, crackling beneath your feet,
And the swamps are burnt, cracked black and the season looks quite beat,
Look to the swamp box, cousin to the brush box growing on the swampy pug.
On the north coast plain ... don't disdain, 'cause you won't be a silly mug.
This tree will weep a nectar sweet from flowers small and white ...
Growing from the grey black branches, that have withstood the season's blight.
The bees will come, the flies will come, refreshment to obtain,
From this well of fruity nectar, flowing from the dry swamp plain.