Homework 22/09...Said Hockey J
Posted: Fri Sep 12, 2014 2:13 pm
Said Hockey J (with apologies to Hartigan P, aka O’Brien J)
“We'll all be rooned,” said Hockey J,
in accents most forlorn,
“our fiscal outlook is quite grey
unless more sheep are shorn!”
The Coalition sat about,
and pondered what to do
to get some more to go without,
and who they yet might screw.
“It's lookin' crook,” said Abbott T,
“it’s no damn good, me lad,
our minin’ magnates say to me
it’s never been so bad.
We’ve axed the tax, so that won’t work
to raise a bit of dough;
from here way out to Back-o'-Bourke,
we’ve gotta fleece ’em, Joe!”
“It's tough, all right,” said Bishop J,
quite clearly in distress,
then rang up John Paul Gaultier
to buy a brand new dress.
“If we don’t make the people pay,
we’ve had the gong, no doubt,
we'll all be rooned,” said Hockey J,
“before the year is out.
We need to hit the poor,” he said,
“and bleed the peasants dry,
it’s not our job to keep them fed,
we’ve submarines to buy!
We’ll make kids work to get the dole,
and Medicare cost more,
then help our mates to dig more coal
and sell it all off-shore.”
“I’ll tell you what,” squeaked Prissy Pyne,
“I’ve got this cunning scheme
to make our students toe the line,
and Uni just a dream.
We’ll cut the funding to the bone,
and force the fees to rise,
so poor kids’ chances will have flown,
and ours can claim the prize.”
“That’s sounding good,” said Hockey J,
but Palmer holds us up.
We'll all be rooned, I have to say,
if we can’t tame the PUP.”
A heavy silence filled the room,
the Senate on each mind,
and all they saw were signs of gloom,
and months of daily grind.
“We’ll have to compromise, do deals,
give Palmer what he wants,”
said Bishop J, “perhaps free meals
in fancy restaurants?”
“I think you’re right,” said Abbott T,
“we’ll have to talk to him,
we have no choice, it seems to me…
it’s either sink or swim.”
In God's good time they compromised
on this and then on that,
they argued and they agonised,
and played the diplomat.
They sold their souls, the devil smiled
at how he’d fooled them all,
at how a nation was beguiled
by flim-flam and sheer gall.
And so it went, this sad charade,
this mockery, this fraud,
this democratic masquerade
that no-one could applaud.
But Hockey J found no relief,
despite the deals he got.
“It does not help, it brings me grief,
my reputation’s shot!
The budget is a nasty smell
that will not disappear,
and I have been condemned to hell,
with no-one left to cheer.”
“Fear not, good Joe,” said Abbott T,
“for there is lots of time
until election day, and we
can cover up your crime.
We have a slogan we can use
that will not fail, I know,
to make it certain we can’t lose
to our most-hated foe.
It’s something that we always say
when forced to save our skin.”
“We’ll all be rooned,” cried Hockey J,
“if Labor gets back in!”
© David Campbell 12/09/14
“We'll all be rooned,” said Hockey J,
in accents most forlorn,
“our fiscal outlook is quite grey
unless more sheep are shorn!”
The Coalition sat about,
and pondered what to do
to get some more to go without,
and who they yet might screw.
“It's lookin' crook,” said Abbott T,
“it’s no damn good, me lad,
our minin’ magnates say to me
it’s never been so bad.
We’ve axed the tax, so that won’t work
to raise a bit of dough;
from here way out to Back-o'-Bourke,
we’ve gotta fleece ’em, Joe!”
“It's tough, all right,” said Bishop J,
quite clearly in distress,
then rang up John Paul Gaultier
to buy a brand new dress.
“If we don’t make the people pay,
we’ve had the gong, no doubt,
we'll all be rooned,” said Hockey J,
“before the year is out.
We need to hit the poor,” he said,
“and bleed the peasants dry,
it’s not our job to keep them fed,
we’ve submarines to buy!
We’ll make kids work to get the dole,
and Medicare cost more,
then help our mates to dig more coal
and sell it all off-shore.”
“I’ll tell you what,” squeaked Prissy Pyne,
“I’ve got this cunning scheme
to make our students toe the line,
and Uni just a dream.
We’ll cut the funding to the bone,
and force the fees to rise,
so poor kids’ chances will have flown,
and ours can claim the prize.”
“That’s sounding good,” said Hockey J,
but Palmer holds us up.
We'll all be rooned, I have to say,
if we can’t tame the PUP.”
A heavy silence filled the room,
the Senate on each mind,
and all they saw were signs of gloom,
and months of daily grind.
“We’ll have to compromise, do deals,
give Palmer what he wants,”
said Bishop J, “perhaps free meals
in fancy restaurants?”
“I think you’re right,” said Abbott T,
“we’ll have to talk to him,
we have no choice, it seems to me…
it’s either sink or swim.”
In God's good time they compromised
on this and then on that,
they argued and they agonised,
and played the diplomat.
They sold their souls, the devil smiled
at how he’d fooled them all,
at how a nation was beguiled
by flim-flam and sheer gall.
And so it went, this sad charade,
this mockery, this fraud,
this democratic masquerade
that no-one could applaud.
But Hockey J found no relief,
despite the deals he got.
“It does not help, it brings me grief,
my reputation’s shot!
The budget is a nasty smell
that will not disappear,
and I have been condemned to hell,
with no-one left to cheer.”
“Fear not, good Joe,” said Abbott T,
“for there is lots of time
until election day, and we
can cover up your crime.
We have a slogan we can use
that will not fail, I know,
to make it certain we can’t lose
to our most-hated foe.
It’s something that we always say
when forced to save our skin.”
“We’ll all be rooned,” cried Hockey J,
“if Labor gets back in!”
© David Campbell 12/09/14
