WORKIN’ FOR THE DOLE
© Tom McIlveen
Winner, 2016 ABPA Victorian Championship – Humorous Larrikin Award, Man from Snowy River Festival, Corryong Victoria.
“Wakey wakey, eggs an’ bakey’s on!
An’ here’s your toast and ‘alf a buttered scone.
Get up and shake a leg you lazy lug!
You’re layin’ there like some reposing slug.
Rise n’ shine, you good for nothin’ louse!
I ain’t ya’ flamin’ concubine or spouse.
I’m sick an’ tired of pickin’ up your clothes,
an’ waitin’ for your socks to decompose.
You’ve missed the mornin’ an’ the midday news…
so av’a guess who’s gonna coach the Blues?
The Wallabies ‘av got’a bit of spark,
an’ keen to ‘av’a go at Eden Park.
It seems as though the Saints ‘ave found some form,
and Bellamy is stickin’ with the Storm!
The Pollys want to plug the budget hole,
by cuttin’ back on benefits ‘an dole.
The mongrels want to blame us unemployed
for causing this ‘ere economic void.
I ain’t no mathematics prodigy,
an’ I ain’t got no algebra degree…
but ‘ow the ‘ell can treasury be bust,
when they’re the ones who own the bloomin’ Trust?
‘An now they’ve started passin’ round the hat,
because their stocks and dividends are flat!
Although I’m just a stupid sofa spud…
I’ve done the maths, and it’s as clear as mud.
It ain’t no magic mystery or trick ̶̶
but good old simplified arithmetic!
This working for the dole is just a sham
and nothing but a politician’s scam.
The Pollys want to blame us I suppose,
for causing all their economic woes.
The whole economy is just a joke,
so ‘ow the ‘ell can Treasury be broke?
They own the mint which prints the foldin’ stuff...
just make some more, if things are gettin’ tough!
It’s nothing but a bureaucratic lurk,
the way these bludgers send us out to work.
I reckon one or two are on the take…
an’ get a bit of everthin’ we make.
They get a cut from every dollar saved…
an’ bonuses when benefits are waived.
They split us into segregated mobs
an’ give us all the low degrading jobs.
We get to drive around in Council vans
to sweep the streets an’ empty garbage cans.
It’s ‘umblin to be wallowin’ in sludge,
when I’ve been taught to supervise an’ bludge.
A fella’s got to ‘av some sort of pride…
especially when over qualified.
I’ve got a reputation to protect,
an’ should be shown a little more respect.
I’m losing influence amongst my mates…
although they’re mostly fools ‘an reprobates.
When Centrelink is leavin’ me alone,
I’ve got a little business of me own.
Its true, I’m well connected with me peers…
they come to me for cigarettes an’ beers.
I call it, ‘Tailor mades and taxis week…’
when prices for commodities are peak.
But when their benefits ‘ave all been spent,
they count on me for sustenance an’ rent.
I charge ‘em with me other lurks an’ perks,
then pass it on’ta Housin’ Public Works.
I get a cut from Tradie contractees,
an’ add it to me consulatation fees.
This goverment is out to send me bust…
so ‘ows a bloke supposed to make a crust?
Me notoriety has copped a blow
‘an business has been gettin’ kind’a slow.
If slavery is s’posed to be a crime,
then why ain’t I refunded for me time?
Wakey wakey, eggs ‘an bakey’s gone!
An’ so’s me toast and ‘alf your buttered scone.
There’s nothing in the fridge but cans of booze,
an’ now you’ve gone an’ missed the evenin’ news!
If Centrelink comes knocking on your door ̶
just tell’em I don’t live here anymore!”