poem

"The West Bank already started to be destroyed
Jenin streets and homes and another hospital besieged
Our fate will be like Gaza, the terrorist army warned
Beirut too soon and other cities will also be damned
for our "new Middle East" with Starbucks
Grow General Electric and all war stocks
The USA has got Israel's back and gives the weapons to kill
American Taxpayers foot the bill
Will anyone signal stop?"  [More of this poem and links inside.]

Marion has a little lamb
His fleece is white as snow
And everywhere that Marion goes 
That lamb is sure to go

This lamb whose name is Scruffy
Is really very lucky
He lost his mum before he was one
In fact before he got fluffy

Alone he cried whilst by her side 
His Mum had now departed. 
But he was found, now safe and sound
All wrapped up and sleeping. 

This is an allegorical poem about some creatures on a farm during a covid-like lockdown.

THE BARNYARD’S ARK by Sandra Garnier

Once upon a time in a land of endless sunrises and sunsets …

There lived a barnyard of animals

Of all descriptions, some large and some small

Some short and some tall.

They made up the barnyard family,

Amid the laughter, fun, and calamity

We've isolated, disinfected,  distanced, masked and tested 
Lined up for any nasal itch or throat with stitch In case we were infected 
We've vaccinated, validated, Q R coded with dedication
Whilst cancers in our organs run rampant, undetected 
 

Our city was alight last night as was the countryside
the first, an exhibition the latter ecocide.

Infernos rage devouring branches, trees and leaves,
baking soil, cooking worms, singeing feathered wings ,
fragile membranes of flying foxes, gliders,
or burning them to oblivion. These creatures cannot outrun
the raging flames gathering force, uniting over ridges.
Wind assisted, the fires grow and gather speed.
These fires can turn a house, a car, a firetruck
into a skeleton or a mere suggestion of what was there before,
an imprint on the ground around what was yesterday a fireplace and chimney.

Smoke envelops once carefree seaside towns. The skies are dark at midday
and penetrating that thick blackness,
the sun appears faintly like a distant headlight through a London fog.

Cancelled camping trips leave city children disappointed.
Now trapped and urbanised, they take refuge in their phones
while those living on the coast are bailed up on beaches, homeless and afraid.
Others lost their lives, eaten up by flames.
The greatest toll was wildlife 500 million dead I'm told.
The rescued ones bear scars on ears and legs and toes
and there's nowhere to return to if by chance they are restored.

Australia's cities were alight last night in magnificent displays,
As the remnants of our forests were consumed in such a blaze!

If I could tell my father what has happened in the years
Since he departed suddenly, extinguishing his fears
If I could tell my sister, so earnest and concerned
Now lying in her grave near those both ignorant and learned
If I could tell my mother, who confidently expected
That the wealth of generations would not be snatched by those elected...

Would I tell them truthfully that bad guys came and plundered?
They wrecked our streets, our landscape, as with bulldozers they thundered
They ripped through trees, they crashed through walls
Erased our past, it didn't last.
A cry of grief and all lay waste to metronomes, the wrecking balls -

What would I tell them now as I regard the transformation
What happened right in front of me was like a dislocation
"The Shock doctrine" or "Future Shock" was dispensed in spades
To the victims it was judiciously spun and cleverly explained
But lives now taken up with merely trying to stay afloat,
Swallowed it, repeated it, with not an ounce of doubt

A strange and constant war goes on, yes even in the sand belt
Where we walk our dogs, hear the birds, admire the trees that they inhabit
Opportunistically it strikes near my house, yours or others,
No care at all, no sympathy, for the poor folk who it bothers
What would I say to those passed away and don't know it fell apart?
Would I break it gently to let them know? At least it would be a start.

What would they think if I told them how our wildlife struggles gamely
Would they accept that timber trucks remove our forests daily?
Clear fell the dell where creatures charming,
Big eyes, that shine, endearing and alarming
Lose their homes and are left to die if they didn't die at first
No leaves to eat, no place to sleep, they will succumb to thirst

Relentless, it accelerates, leaves us, breathless and in shock,
What new surprise will meet our eyes next time we're taking stock?
Determined it continues and advances without care,
We live in hope that by some vain chance, our own home it will spare.
But inexorably, the monster has a job to do.
It's going there, it's coming here, and it will get you too.

Each spring I feel a tinge of grief when magnolia buds appear.
For I never see the glorious display I yearn for every year.
I might see a hint of pink withstanding every storm
But the elaborate blooms I see next door on my tree are still- born.

I know who is responsible, a possum small and shy,
I feed him in the vain hope that he will my tree pass by,
Although my ploy has never worked I keep it up from habit
And I never In my wildest dreams would take my knife and stab it!

I met him one night on the fence; he froze upon his feet
What right had I to stand right there when he was passing on his beat?
In all the years I've felt the need to leave him something yummy,
He never speaks and never looks, just puts it in his tummy.

From today at start of spring my blooms may have a chance,
I saw some fur upon the lawn and from my window looked askance,
Oh what awful savagery has happened in my tame garden?
I must go outside and know the truth, my feelings I must harden!

Yes, torn and ripped my possum lies all spread out on the grass
His stomach, full is tossed aside, no use to he who broke his fast
Looking up, a butcher bird with innocent expression
Too small is he to do this deed but will not say no to its digestion!

Minutes on I saw a large black crow alighting on the scene
Pulling apart from near the heart the meat that had once been
Little ring tail quiet and shy, no personality to speak of
But meant the world to his family who now can only think of.........

Here cdb poet, Brolga-Brolga, tells a moral tale of how a number of neighbours clubbed together to speculate on their adjacent land, but when they tried to buy again, they were already priced out of the market. With homage to Barry Humpreys who wrote The Highett Waltz, sung by Dame Edna, and linked to here.

The pressure is on in our quiet locations
The people who come here are not on vacations
They’re here to stay or so they believe it
The traffic’s horrendous no laws can relieve it

Our peaceful suburbs are in constant disruption
As developers demolish and dig deep for construction
The roads are adorned with red tape and “no access”
Impeding our progress with no sign of success.

Because all the hordes buy our houses galore
One group of people saw their chance to the fore
They got together all 8 neighbours next door
And conjured a sale, a bonanza for all

With planning awry it was well worth a try
To ruin the street but escape with their prize
A premium was paid for these 8 in a row
But for the old friends and neighbours ‘twas a terrible blow

The 8 Bay Road vendors raced away with their gains
And searched the bay suburbs, taking great pains
To find houses in line with their new found riches ,
With sun-decking, en- suites and brand new kitchens

Alas and alack they found only thin pickings
The houses all small and in very poor settings
As month after month they searched the “for sales”
The prices raced right past their premium gains

Meanwhile back in Bay Road, the 8 modest houses
Lie in ruins amid the remains of their gardens
They will be replaced with a 6 storey building,
of 50 apartments, the council unyielding
To grief stricken neighbours, their lives all in tatters
And the council kept saying "what on Earth does it matter?"

So, it’s no longer just normal and quiet ‘round Highett,
It’s constant construction, you just cannot fight it
The neighbours who stayed in Bay Road are defeated
Some internal peace needs be created.

But there will be no peace with those who absconded
and left them the mess to which they are now bonded
These 8 made so little in real estate terms
It’s a hard lesson and one we should learn.

With high immigration the prices will rise
and your fat sum of 1 million will soon take a dive
"Oh only a million, you might try a flat .."
Forget house and garden say "bye- bye to that."

The violence of the rainforest is slow

A tropical dance of death

A slow motion conga of

Glacial garrotting, woody twists and knots and turns,

Plaited hangman's nooses,

Gargoyle roots and towering ferns

Or

A cold-burn of waxen shapes in love

Strangler Figs embracing eucalyptus

Trees twisted together for hundreds of years

One feeding on the other

Until the embraced-one,

Like the spider's spouse

falls away

Without ever any movement being perceived by the

Biped passing by

Who thinks these trees are like dead things, without motive or passions

Little do we who live as fast as insects seem to us

Notice the frenzy

But, if we were eternal beings

We might look down and see a blur

Of motion

Shoots surging to meet the light

Straightening saplings racing vertically alongside old giants

Old giants shaking their hoary heads inside the clouds

Fast as loosened ropes, the vines drop down from the fig-seed

silently beside the leviathons,

Then twirl like serpents,

wrapping the tree in an instant of time

so fast or so slow - it amounts to the same thing -

That you cannot see it happening

Like some corset designed by a torturer

To pass for skin

The squeeze begins

II

Meanwhile on the misty forest floor among the undergrowth,

The lawyer-vine

Erupting from disturbances

Weaves its way upwards among the branches and the trunks,

Leaving a ladder of spiny little flagellates

Conveyancing sap

The South American velcro-plant, trails from dark into the light,

Hooking its sticky hairs into small frogs and lizards,

Holding them fast until death by dehydration…

Whilst moving ahead of itself,

The way plants do, by growing, up and over,

Up and over itself,

Incidentally smothering out the light

From competitors

III

Hark, the drumming of a million balled seeds

In the dark palm forest

As bats wake up at four pm

Seeds fall pelting, rolling, tumbling

Setting each other off like billiard-balls

Down down the incline towards the falls

It’s been a saga with revolving doors,
First Kevin 07 with all his flaws
Then out as PM in election 2013
But there was another PM in between!

Here’s how it played out: what does it mean?

was it real ?

has it really been?

Kev said he wanted “Big Australia”

Put wool in ceilings and all that paraphernalia

The polls went down,

He wore a frown,

We survived the fallout from the USA property bubble

But it seemed our government was in trouble

To most of us it was as a bolt

The day that Gillard called a “Halt”!

A tap on the shoulder “It’s all over”

A ballot for leader? No. It would be a walkover.

A tight election barely suited

A minority government with help recruited

That's how a woman first came to power,

She had no reason to shrink and cower

But her reign was fraught;

with fashionistas she fought ,

Gillard was not the media’s darling,

Unmarried, atheistic but in reality charming

The press despised her

Were very unkind to her

every slip exposed,

she was goaded, teased

and soapie parodied

Every victory, achievement excluded,

Hard work covered, and buried,

By a press hell bent on virtual asphyxiation.

The deposed PM in retaliation,

treating parliament a bit like recreation

danced and twirled, a constant distraction

bathing in the press reaction

When the media king said “off with her head”

from that point on her leadership was dead,

Rudd who stuck just like molasses

was back to perform for the receptive masses,

The result of this absurd confection

Was for Kev to lead Labor to another election !

BUT Alas for Labor, Kev’s not Rupert’s favorite,

And Abbot’s recipe goes down like chocolate

He’s the new PM, the one we expected,

an ex- priest, a catholic he’s so well connected !

Twenty thirteen awaits us tomorrow. What is reasonable to expect of the year which some may see as being an unlucky number? Should we reach for the sky or just try to maintain business as usual?

Twenty thirteen, where have you been?
At midnight, where shall we meet you?
We’ve known you were there, so far and so fair
Unlucky some say. It’s the number.

But is it just numerals that signify doom?
Or is it the way we are living?
The Earth’s still benign; to me it’s a sign
That something is there that’s worth saving.

Twenty thirteen, there’s nothing you’ve seen
You’re just waiting to open the curtain.
We’ve all been here just part of the scene
In twenty twelve, stuff happened, that’s certain.

For most of this year we did not live in fear
But we addled our heads with vexation.
Our Earth’s getting hotter, this seems to be clear
It’s really much worse than taxation.

But the little we do keeps us right on and true
Towards the temperature that’s untenable!
What should we do as we open the flue?
And fill up all our convertibles?

Twenty thirteen, didn’t think I would see,
A year so far into the future!
How would we explain all the chaos and shame?
To a person long dead at this juncture?

If things were bad in eighty four
We were losing species by the score
2012 was worse with little hope
Population's up, should we blame the Pope?

The Arab Spring has done its thing
With tensions and power struggles arising
Was it all good? Did it do what it should?
Or is there something that it’s disguising?

I wonder anew at all the “to do”
Europe’s Germany much like a strict father
What worries me most is not burning the toast
But the economia of “Ellatha” *.

We stand upon the Fiscal Cliff
Marionettes precariously dangling
What strings to pull to mend the rift
caused by money printing and wrangling?

But that’s not all, we’ve hit the wall
What will be left, what’ll be the score?
Twenty thirteen, it’s too much to ask of you
To fix it all is too big a task for you!

Twenty thirteen, it’s too much to explain,
But you know what I mean, to you, it’s plain
The things to be fixed are so fundamental
And it’s all strung together, it’s elemental.

* Ellatha is Greek for Greece

Why do some focus energy
to stop the little possum he
from strutting very naturally
upon the branch that be?

What did possums ever do to humans?

An example of a 'possum band'. This ridiculous sort of chastity belt for trees to stop possums sheltering where they have always sheltered is a cruel device for which residents unwittingly foot the bill to councils in nice little rorts arranged with the manufacturers of these totally unnecessary devices.

Why do some focus energy
to stop the little possum he
from strutting very naturally
upon the branch that be?

What gives? What's up
what motivates
the householder the radio jock
the councillor the passing hoon
to scheme so strangely to deprive
the naive possum of his life?

Is it bloodlust
Is it fear
that so inspires
the deadly sneer
that so conspires
the dark career
to so reject the furry feature
to so harass a fellow creature?

What is this dreadful cowardice
this low pursuit of the defenceless?
How do his persecutors justify
harassment of this little guy?

Time for Reform, St Kilda Councillors:

The Australian suburb of Saint Kilda, Victoria, is memorable in its dedication to possum harassment by possum-banding trees against all opposition and in its provision of easily disprovable reasons for doing so. The Port Phillip Council that oversees St Kilda started out saying that possums transmitted a kind of wilt that affected palm trees and that they were banding the palm trees in Catani Gardens, St. Kilda. They were unable to prove that possums spread palm wilt and unable to show that the palm trees had any wilt. In the picture you can see that the trees' thatches are uniformly healthy. That didn't stop the council putting up the possum bands, though and causing deaths of possums through loss of shelter. There was a war for years between the council and the people who loved and visited the possums. It was a stinking example of despotism on the part of petty officialdom. The most obvious motivation was commercial gain from manufacturing and providing the metal bands, which ratepayers were funding under the guise of combatting a non-existent threat to palms. The wound has still not healed. The bands are still there. The possums still lacking shelter. The unfounded cruelty still unrepented, still shaming. The scandal, the cruelty, still raw, still present. And since spread to other councils, like a commercially motivated cancer, masquerading as science.

The cruel and silly possum band

O see the cruel and silly possum-band
example of the stupid hand
of some man
- or woman
who
given too much power
did not improve the shining hour

What reason pray
to persecute
the innocent arboreal brute?

Were the councillors irate
to know that something lived and ate
yet did not bow to council rate?

How else to make the possum
know
that humans ruled the land
Except to place around its trees
arcane and ugly possum-band?
That piece of steel and human vice
flouting reason, cruel device and -

Ridiculous at any price!
An impost and an insult to
ratepayers of intelligence
moreover anybody who
had the slightest bit of common sense

Cloaked in pseudo science and blindness
- to prevent wilt they said -
bereft of empathy or kindness
- they left the possums dead -
the humans, creaming off some cash
from ratepayers to reimburse
the manufacturers of this trash

I used to see all kinds of frogs in our garden as a child,
But they all went when the nearby swamp was drained completely dry,
The local horses disappeared when vacant blocks were sold
And working horses pulling carts all went away we’re told.

Poem - Our Lizard

My world is all the animals I meet both fenced and free,
When they are gone, all ploughed to dust, what will be left of me?
Now rarely glimpsed peripherally at night upon a wire,
Or soaring, graceful overhead in the night sky even higher,

I used to see all kinds of frogs in our garden as a child,
But they all went when the nearby swamp was drained completely dry,
The local horses disappeared when vacant blocks were sold
And working horses pulling carts all went away we’re told.

On Sunday drives it wasn’t far to see the grazing cows
And at my school the bush was home to harlequin bugs and flowers,
We found a possum, took it home not knowing it was wrong.
Our parents took it back again to join its family throng.

One day I found a lizard, cut deeply through his scales
I took him home all wrapped and warm to mend his little tail,
His blue tongue flicked
As he wriggled and kicked

But we slapped a bandage on him
We kept him for a time it seemed but God knows what we fed him.
The day arrived to set him free, he seemed quite well we thought
But not a pet to live his life far from others of his sort.

Quite close to home a sanctuary seemed the best solution.
We took him there and let him loose with bandage medication
His shapely legs with grateful ease in graceful coordination
took him away to live his life in carefree liberation

"0IL SPILL: Skulking low in greasy places, liars speaking truths obscene..."

Below poem reproduced in printable form:

OIL SPILL by Anne Simic
When we arrived demented clowns

skulking low in greasy places

liars speaking truths obscene

to foetid smell of smoking screen

mouths malodorous, filthy sounds

weasel words from blackened faces

naughty children, fat and frightened

await their spanking, bodies tightened.

When we left our unplugged frowns

spread faecal spill in every space

venting all our ruptured spleen

hubris for what might have been

engulfing all the seas and towns

werewolves killing our own traces

voices of dissent were quietened

death of everything was heightened.

Ann Simic

out Yapeen way in the old pub

long converted to a cottage

I've been looking again for the moon

in the window at night

like last year

every night

no moon

instead the voices of

gold rushers filling the dark

slaking dusty throats

sharing exaggerations

a well-turned ankle disappearing

into a back room

the Jaara people

unseen keeping watch

all-seeing

quizzing the drink

the music

the people

there's old Joe in the corner

with squeeze box

fit to beat the band

dancing the well-worn songs

Mary crying for old Ireland

on this hushed and moonless night

NOTES

Wednesday January 25 2012: voices

Santa is feeling the pressure of increased work as population and density of housing in cities increases. He sympathises with the nurses.

‘Twas the night before Christmas and Santa was stressed
His elves overworked but doing their best,
To keep up the good work which grew more and more
To satisfy children entitled by law,
To a visit from Santa on December 24
Down steep sooty chimneys and then out the door.

“There're too many houses and too many toys
To make and distribute to girls and to boys!”
Cried the elves overworked to skin and to bone ,
Stressed out of their brains while they talked on the phone,
Of how to deliver those millions of presents
When the moon on that night would be only a crescent

And since their last trip,10 million new houses
Awaited delivery of toys and of blouses,
They knew from last year the work had expanded
Crafting millions more toys e’er Santa landed
Back at the north pole from his twenty ten orbit,
Which took him so long he was candidly morbid

Crying “How can they ask for more work each year?
Productivity improvements come very dear
To us in our workplace we cannot do better
Please think of our health and do not send letters!
There’s too many of you and too few of us,
Our reindeer hang in there and don’t make a fuss

But when they look for a house and then they find eight.
Poor Santa gets worried as he’s running so late!
Those planners and pollies do not think ahead,
Not even to the night when their kids go to bed
Expecting one man to come to ever more homes
With wonderful trinkets and be-jeweled combs."

"It’s all very well for them and for theirs
I now have to climb all those millions of stairs!
I’m not getting younger and neither are they
But their superannuation will save the day.
Like all those dear nurses, I love what I do
But pressure from others just stuffs me up too.”

For an instant the ears come up
forked and twitching like a diviner's rod
dowsing the shoreline for lethal sounds - those
faint steady fumblings before the rifle-crack."

THE WALLABIES, FLINDERS ISLAND
by Mark O'Connor

I can find the wombat
grass-snuffler, abroad in the day
like a bland hairy pig
or a fallen koala with middle-age spread;
but the small people stay in the ti-tree
watching me out in the open.
For ten thousand years they have kept their fear
without man or dingo
since the sea washed round their hills.
They long to drink, but it isn't safe,
not yet, until after the gun is heard
and the ute goes home to feed the dogs.
Yet the meek must always possess the earth
or what could the mighty steal?
Their fear has no indignation.
They are meant to be killed and eaten
and to feed in terror all their lives...
Man-smell has entered the thickets
--loud thumpings in ti-tree gullies,
glint of an eye, trembling nostril.
Only the crow, manoeuvring from post to post,
knows that my pencil is not a gun.

But at dusk, by the lake --
something laps.
For an instant the ears come up
forked and twitching like a diviner's rod
dowsing the shoreline for lethal sounds - those
faint steady fumblings before the rifle-crack.
Twin Bennet's wallabies, unshot and ignorant of Bennet
and now, as it turns out, lovers.
My step brings their ears, then their shoulders, erect.
But they forget me, and stare on out
at their lake, where the sun swims into night.

[email protected]
+612 62473341 or Mobile 0451517966
Website: http://www.australianpoet.com/
Blog: http://markoconnor-australianpoet.blogspot.com
Mark is also the author, with Bill Lines, of Overloading AustraliaEnvirobooks, 2009.

House by house, road by road,
We can see our city grow.
Woodlands, wetlands meet their fate;
Developers, bankers celebrate.
What's a little Nature kill
Compared to money in the till?

Bulldoze the home of duck and turtle?
A minor bureaucratic hurdle!
They just must do an EA first,
Before they dig into the Earth.
That's no great comfort to the frog
Who lost his home that was the bog.

Politicians wring their hands
They say they want to save the land.
They hate to see the greenbelt frayed,
But say that growth cannot be stayed.
So in our parks and nearby counties,
Growth pours cement on nature's bounties.

Now you may think that it's absurd
That no one ever says a word
Against the growth that every hour
Another chunk of land devours.
The greens insist we must conserve,
But won't stop growth: they lack the nerve.

If growth is smart, greens say, we'll manage.
Yes, smart growth will control the damage!
We'll build up high to reach the sky,
We'll in-fill and we'll densify.
It's not the numbers, greens all say,
It's how we live our life each day.

So bankers, builders, and the greens,
Business, leaders, those with means,
Praise "smart growth" in single chorus,
While it consumes another forest.
Perhaps greens can't resist the offers
Of corporate money in their coffers?

To keep the growth of population,
We bring in folks from every nation.
One-quarter million in a year,
Is not enough for us, I hear.
But riches go to just a few,
While gridlock, smog hurt me and you.

So why is pushing growth a mission
For almost every politician?
Big business offers them much more
Than working blokes who mind the store!
Our leaders also want the votes
Of those who come in planes and boats.

Has all this growth improved the lot
Of the average working sod?
Stats Can says that what he got
Amounts to little more than naught.
The truth is that real earnings grew
Only for the richest few.

They saw their yearly earnings rise
Sixteen percent— there's no surprise.
The poorest fifth, alas, not so!
Not only did their funds not grow,
They plunged by a percent of twenty.
Not for the poor—growth's horn of plenty!

They have seen their wages drop
As new competitors take pail and mop.
And ever more people needing room
Turns wilderness to housing boom.
If people need somewhere to live
Field and woodlot have to give.

Environmental laws are but a token
While we keep the floodgates open.
Endangered species make one long list
But surely they will not be missed
By those who benefit the most
From our relentless quest for growth.

So why is it that all we hear
From our media is one loud cheer?
Of growth we never hear them say,
"A few get rich, but we all pay!"
We see growth's damage all around
Yet praises for it still abound.

Just take a mo' to think it through.
Who owns the media? Not me. Not you.
Newspaper ads help tell the story:
Business and banks bask in growth's glory.
So now you can connect the dots
Of why we are in such a spot.

And what will our descendants eat
When farm and field have turned to street?
What do the growth promoters say
About the price our kids will pay?
An old French king once summed it up:
"Après moi—who gives a flip?"

One fine day, we'll hit the wall,
Our growth economy will fall.
It's clear to those not wilfully blind
That nature's bounty has declined.
So have a drink, and drown your sorrow.
Things will be even worse tomorrow.

Madeline Weld
22 September 2010
Ottawa
Bulldozer Blues©

Figures from The Magic Puddingby Norman Lindsay

A Victorian citizens rally cry and lament

People of Australia we’re in trouble to our nuts, it’s five to bloody midnight-no ifs or bloody buts
Its’ time for damned austerity with water, power and perks. So leave the bloody car at home and walk to work you jerks!

People of Orstralia now the water’s all run out. Some blame global warming and some the bloody drought
And some say it’s a bastard but everybody will when they get the bloody info that water’s twice the bill.

The same goes for electric that we get from bloody coal, it’s looking for sequestrum like a rabbit down a hole.
Yet we’ve got bloody solar for ten thousand times our needs and governments do nothing by thought or word or deed.

Fellas of Australia, sheilas, blokes and mates, you’ll go bloody nowhere if you retain the bloody states !
Define the bloody regions, get rid of lines on maps and focus on efficiency in government perhaps.

Females of Australia this is not the knell of doom, but you can’t legitimise your place through your bloody womb.
We all should be more tolerant of lesbians and queens but keep a bloody eye out for the pioneering genes.

Let’s educate our youngsters so they can get the skills to pay the bloody taxes, P.P.P.'s and other bills,
We're behind in infrastructure, schools, hospitals and trains, but the Government's planned nothing, they've got no bloody brains!

Sure, we are girt by sea and girt by c02 and girt by bloody methane to put into the brew.
We're girt by politicians who won't de bloody bate that overpopulation will be our terminal fate
We've species loss, degraded soils and environmental squalor, and bloody blind self serving bastards in it for a dollar!
They want Melbourne at 7 million and Oz at 35 a ridiculous bloody trajectory that Aussie can't survive.

Now Oz has got a statesman who runs the bloody show with 2020 vision and Chinese lingo, don’t you know?
And the sheila there who helps him is as smart as bloody paint and just like bloody Ablett, she’s never where the ball ain't.

But we’ve got bloody Brumby, by default you’d have to say and by default the bloody desal and dredging of the Bay.
But he’ll be Jeffed like Kennett and bloody Howard too. And I’ll be there to wave goodbye. It’s bloody overdue.
People of Orstralia, when the bugle sounds the call, don’t just bloody stand there like you’ve lost a bloody ball.
Heave and strain and struggle with all your bloody might and hope to hell your efforts will bring us to the light.

We must be multipartite on education and health, indigenous affairs and immigration so it’s not approached by stealth.
Let’s get a national anthem that sounds less like a dirge and get a new republic while the folks have got the urge
And get a proper flag as on Eureka’s noble knoll, not a quasi bloody mish mash of colonial control.

And so I ask my Aussie mates before they place their bets to consider the integrity of the “PATH OF NO REGRETS”
Get rid of self indulgence that used to be the way and save old bloody Aussie and the planet I dare say.

By Walter Grahame
For and on behalf of Arthur Cartwright a.k.a J.N. Button