In the shadow of the Murdoch throne,
Anthony Albanese stands alone,
Cowering low, in a media storm,
Caught in the webs that the headlines form.
Zionist whispers twist and twine,
Manipulation, a dangerous line,
He fumbles and stumbles, a cautious dance,
Caught in a game where he’s lost his chance.
Dutton’s aggression, a looming cloud,
With barbs and jabs, he’s not too proud,
Albo ducks and weaves, a political fright,
Can’t catch a break in this relentless fight.
Five minutes pass, he’s back to the tale,
Of his mum on the pension, the struggle, the frail,
Public housing echoes, a life hard and true,
Yet neoliberal dreams push him further askew.
With policies wrapped in a market embrace,
He’s proud of the system, but it’s a hollow space,
Promises whispered in the winds of change,
But reality bites, it’s all feeling strange.
So here he stands, in a world of gray,
Navigating power in a precarious way,
With each step he takes, he’s caught in the fray,
A leader adrift, come what may.
In the end, it’s a dance with the fates,
In the game of politics, where nobody waits,
Albanese, a name in the fray of the bold,
In the saga of power, the story unfolds.
