Artie Illywhacker

© David Campbell

Winner, 2019 Victorian Bush Poetry Championships (Humorous Section), Corryong Victoria.

I see ’em on the telly…they’re always in the news…
they gets right on me nelly, all spoutin’ out their views.
An’ now they’re well in season…it’s somethin’ we all fear…
they lose their rhyme an’ reason when it’s election year.

I’m talkin’ ’bout those pollies…the dills, the dolts, the crooks…
the spivs an’ all their follies, the touts wot cooks the books.
I’ve seen ’em in their glory, their chests puffed out with pride,
an’ ’eard ’em tell their story, an’ watched ’em bung on side.

But right across our nation there’s none can lay a claim
ter causin’ more frustration than one outstandin’ name,
for Artie Illywhacker, our local candidate,
is quite a pollie cracker, the one we love ter ’ate.

We never see our Artie as years go slippin’ by;
“He’s working for the party!” ’is well-paid minions cry,
but where ’e might be workin’…well, no-one seems ter know
just where our Artie’s lurkin’, or ’ow ’e spends our dough.

Until the word “rejection” is whispered in ’is ear,
an’ thoughts of re-election then suddenly appear,
so Artie wakes from slumber an’ stumbles inter view,
ter seek that magic number, the votes ter see ’im through.

’E’ll turn up at a meetin’, fair bustin’ in ’is suit,
an’ ooze a smarmy greetin’: “G’day yez all, you beaut!”
’E’ll give our ’and some shakin’, an’ kiss a cryin’ kid,
then boast ’e saved our bacon by doin’ wot ’e did.

Now wot ’e did is ’azy, the details rather dim…
but we’ll be bloody crazy if we don’t vote fer ’im!
Fer Artie is the master, ’e knows wot it’s about,
an’ we’ll invite disaster by kickin’ ’im right out.

’E smiles an’ grins an’ chuckles, then strikes a jaunty pose…
I’d like ter plant me knuckles fair on ’is flamin’ nose!
I’d love ter wipe that smirkin’ right off ’is silly moosh,
an’ set ’im down ter workin’ the good old Aussie bush.

I’d ’ave ’im ’chasin’ cattle or out there crutchin’ sheep…
a month or two of that’ll sure rouse ’im from ’is sleep;
and then some weeks of fencin’, or maybe grubbin’ trees
might knock a little sense in an’ bring ’im to ’is knees.

I’d ’ave ’im up by sparrer’s, an’ slavin’ long past dark,
out cartin’ ’eavy barrers until ’e’d made ’is mark
by puttin’ in the hours like us folk gotta do,
through rain an’ ’ail an’ showers, an’ blazin’ sunshine too.

’Cause Artie’s got it easy, the pencil-pushin’ clown,
that cheesy, sleazy, greasy invader of our town…
a bloke wot represents us by shuttin’ up ’is gob,
’oo wouldn’t know consensus was part of ’is damn job!

’E dips ’is lid an’ swallers wot all them pollsters say,
fer Artie simply follers the games they want ter play.
’E’s there ter get ’is pension, ter sit back in the bunch
avoidin’ all attention…an’ take a nice long lunch.

We try ter stir some action on things that we need done,
but get no satisfaction, fer nothin’ is begun;
although ’e nods an’ mumbles an’ sez ’e’ll do ’is best
we know that all our grumbles will never be addressed.

So Mister Illywhacker ain’t welcome in these parts…
’e’s just a lazy slacker wot always breaks our ’earts,
a prat, a nong, a wally, a dopey dimwit chump…
I’ll grab that berk, by golly, an’ give ’is ’ead a thump!

Fair dinkum, it’s a fiddle, a pile of dirty tricks…
they duck an’ dodge an’ diddle, them folk in politics.
They tell us all these whoppers an’ swear they cannot fail…
we oughtta call the coppers an’ bung the lot in jail!

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