by John Williamson       She had her back to him   As he walked in through the door   He'd been down in the forest   He said, "I cut me a walkin' stick palm   Down by the stingin' tree   Never thought I'd see the day I'd need one"       She said, "The real estate people came again today   I made them a pot of tea   They said we'd fetch a million dollars   For our little old 'Rosewood Hill'   I guess they thought we might consider       What would we do with a million   When we own paradise   Buy us an acre of sand   You tell those eager beavers   They won't be talkin' to me   This paradise is not for sale"       He's the last of the old cow cockies   Up there in the clouds   Wouldn't white-coast gold shoes love to get   Their hands on his land       Smell the crispy bacon   Spit and crackle on the fry   The promise of a brand new day   Shake the cloudy blanket   And throw it to the sky   The valley takes your breath away       The crows are perched and waitin'   The family dreams of gold   Surely soon the old man will fade away