The Pollie Plague
© David Campbell

Winner, 2010 Man From Snowy River Festival (Humorous Section), Corryong Victoria.

Well blow me down! Cor stone the crows!
    You know wot I just saw
out walkin’ down our own Main Street,
    an’ bold as brass wot’s more?
A brace uv pollies, jackets off,
    all flashin’ cheesy grins…
it must be an election year,
    an’ time ter check their sins!

Don’t get me wrong, ’cos one-on-one,
    I’m sure they’re lovely folks,
real bonzer types, all ridgy-didge,
    an’ always crackin’ jokes.
But when elections roll around,
    then things ain’t quite so sweet,
’cos they’re the bread at sandwich time...
    an’ we’re the flamin’ meat!

They’ll turn up at a barbecue
    an’ scoff a charcoal snag
ter show that they is one of us
    and not an utter dag.
They’ll listen, nod, and frown a lot
    an’ say: “I’ll make a note,
I’m sure that we can fix that up...
    if you give us yer vote!

I’ve always liked the countryside
    way up around these parts,
an’ you should know that your concerns
    are always in our ’earts.
Don’t worry none, ’cos if we win,
    you’ll be top of the list...
but pardon me, I think I see
    a baby ter be kissed.”

They’ll ’ave a go at milkin’ cows,
    or maybe shearin’ sheep,
they’ll get a pair of wellies wet
    if water ain’t too deep.
They’ll drive a tractor to an’ fro,
    or get up on an ’orse,
an’ all ter get their photos took...
    with ’eaps of smiles of course.

They’ll tell us they’re our only ’ope...
    the other mob are nongs,
a pack of dills, an’ liars too,
    with policy that pongs.
But when I sees ’em on TV,
    all bangin’ on an’ yellin’,
the whole damn lot seems on the nose...
    my pigs is better-smellin’!

They feed upon the rural vote,
    they shake us by the ’and,
with promises cascadin’ down
    like tiny grains of sand.
Akubras on their shiny ’eads,
    they’ll kick the dark red dust,
an’ plead with us ter stick with ’em,
    ter give ’em all our trust.

Like locusts on a field of grain,
    like rabbits, ’roos, an’ mice,
they swarm an’ then...wot can yer say?
    It’s us wot pays the price!
’Cos when I stops an’ looks around
    I ’as ter shake me ’ead
at all the things that we ain’t got,
    no matter wot they said.

The kids’ve gone ’cos there’s no work,
    we lost our only bank,
it costs a bloody arm an’ leg
    ter fill the petrol tank!
With all the bulldust floatin’ round
    it’s gettin’ ’ard ter think…
fair dinkum, all this pollie rot
    could drive a man ter drink!

The only thing that cheers me up,
    that keeps me sorter sane
is knowin’ that the plague’ll end
    an’ peace’ll come again.
Fer pollies are like any pest…
    they’re somethin’ wot we fears;
but…lucky us…they only comes
    but once in four long years!

 

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