The Walrus and The Carpenter
Were governing the land:
They fought like anything because
Things weren’t going as planned:
‘If only we could see as one,’
They said, ‘it would be grand!’
‘Should the referendum say that
First Past The Post wins clear,
Could you please drop the AV thing?’
Asked The Walrus with a leer.
‘I doubt it,’ said the Carpenter
And shed a bitter tear.
‘O Voters, come and back my cause!’
The Carpenter implored.
‘Let’s change these bally voting laws,
I’m sick of being ignored!
This coalition is a sham:
As doormat I am floored.’
The Wily Walrus looked at him:
His eyes were button small.
‘You’ve me to thank for being here
Your mandate is f**k all.
We like the voting status quo
So kindly, please, play ball.’
The Number One in Number Ten
Is what voting’s about.
The Carpenter was deeply miffed,
How could he get him out,
This party-pooping one in charge,
This Walrus big and stout?
Alas dear reader, there’s no end
To tale of love and hate,
For when you enter partnership
Be quite sure you don’t date
The one who claims to share your dreams
But won’t share from his plate.
I published this in Tasmania about 15 years ago when the Council planned to get more into logging on Bruny Island.
ReplyDeleteAlan Bush Scorraig Scotland
I used to write as The Luawannatic.
We lived in Lunawanna.
The warden and The Council Clerk
Were walking at their ease,
They wept like anything to see
Such quantities of trees,
"If these were cleared away," they said,
"They wouldn’t scratch our knees.”
"If two sawmills on Bruny sawed at them every year,
Do you suppose," The Warden said,
"That they could get it clear”.
"I doubt it." said The Council Clerk. And shed a bitter tear.
"Oh voters come and talk with us."
The Warden did beseech,
"A meeting in Alonnah Hall,
Should be within your reach,
I'll engage some famous woodchippers,
To explain cajole or teach."
The eldest islander looked at him,
But never a word he said,
The eldest islander blinked his eye,
And shook his heavy head,
As if to say he did not choose
To go and be spoon fed.
But four young Rednecks hurried up,
All eager for the treat,
Each with an H.P Highlux,
And a chainsaw on the seat,
The odd thing was they really felt,
They were the new elite.
Four log trucks thundered down the road,
And yet another four,
All roaring up from Geeveston,
And more and more and more,
All screaming off the ferry,
On to Bruny' s quiet shore.
The Warden and the Council Clerk,
Walked on a mile or so,
And then they rested in the pub,
To allow their thirst to grow,
And on the counter stubbies stood
All waiting in a row.
But while they quietly quenched their thirst,
The chainsaws raged outside,
The chippers cleared a monster swath,
Through forest deep and wide,
And there were no jobs for Bruny boys,
The men came from outside.
"I weep for; you,” The Warden said,
"I deeply sympathise,
It's a pity there aren’t any jobs,
At all for all you guys,"
He poured another stubbie out,
And gulped to stop his sighs.
“The Mob is getting restive,"
The Warden did observe,
"Oh shut up.” said The Council Clerk, "
You mustn’t lose your nerve,
We've committed all the island now
This is no time to swerve."
"It's time to run," The Warden said
"We've had our bit of fun,
We'll be better hiding in the trees,"
But The Clerk was looking glum,
And this was scarcely odd because
They’d sawed down every one.
by The Lunawannatic,
with help from Lewis Carol
.