I don’t like it.
It’s always their fault –
First the Asians –
Which ones? Please explain.
Indians this week, Chinese next,
But always, always
It’s the Aborigines –
I just don’t like them.
Please explain.
Don’t call me un-Australian –
I know real Aussie food:
Fish and chips,
Wrapped up in yesterday’s newsprint,
Grease melting headlines,
Sprinkled heavy with chicken salt –
A red squirt of tomato sauce,
That’s just how we do it.
My chiko rolls – iconic,
Golden, crispy, fake as a politician’s grin,
Not a real vegetable in sight.
And dim sums – I make them myself,
None of that real “meat,”
No fancy imports, just how I like them,
Steamed or fried,
Straight from my kitchen.
Figures, facts, statistics – who needs ‘em?
I just listen to Gina,
And love her big, shiny money,
Private jets and photo ops –
Who could say no?
I wave the flag,
A cape around my shoulders,
Parading poppy fields and cricket bats,
Claiming I’m “just a battler”
As cameras trail my steps,
A hero for the simple folk
– Or so I like to say.
Every question is an attack,
Every answer: a dodge and a grin,
I bluster, I bark –
In the clown house,
Red nose tilted, cheeks round with outrage,
Spotlight fixed on my frown.
I speak for the people,
That silent majority I conjure,
Their fears booming louder
Each night on the box,
Grievance is my circus,
Misdirection my trick.
Still, as laughter fades,
When crumbs and headlines are swept away,
It’s only me, alone in the centre ring,
Stomping the same old boards,
Echoes and ketchup stains
Trailing after all my demands:
Please explain.
I whinge and I moan –
Can’t trust Albo, can’t trust Greens,
Can’t trust anyone with ideas.
Just give me my clown house,
And a paper-wrapped feast,
Hot chips dropping crumbs on Parliament carpet,
Chicken salt and tomato sauce
On my lips as I complain.
I don’t like you,
Don’t like them,
Don’t like questions or change.
I’ll shout and I’ll pout
With chicken salt on my hands
And demand again –
Please explain.
by Bakchos
