OUR FUTURE
The globe is sadly groaning with debt, poverty and strife,
And billions now are pleading to enjoy a better life.
Their hope lies with resources buried deep within the earth,
And the enterprise and capital which give each project worth.
Is our future threatened with massive debts run up by political hacks,
Who dig themselves out by unleashing rampant tax.
The end result is sending Australian investment, growth and jobs offshore.
This type of direction is harmful to our core.
Some envious unthinking people have been conned,
To think prosperity is created by waving a magic wand.
Through such unfortunate ignorance, too much abuse is hurled
Against miners, workers and related industries who strive to build the world,
Develop North Australia, embrace multiculturalism and welcome short term foreign workers to our shores,
To benefit from the export of our minerals and ores.
The world’s poor need our resources: do not leave them to their fate:
Our nation needs special economic zones and wiser government, before it is too late.
(End of message. In the time it took you to read this, Gina earned twenty-two thousand dollars.
And Tony Abbott thinks she needs more money.
Discuss.)
Name:
It pains me to even think about reading that again.
Jesus wept. William McGonnagall has a rival at last.
Gina Rhinestone fat and round
she digs our minerals out o the ground
she brings the media to their knees
and quickly ships it overseas.
“. . . ships it overseas. . .” — the minerals, that is, the media is already owned overseas (notably the unAustralian) and/or dominated by overseas material which has turned a generation of young Australians into imitations of third-rate Yank scriptwriters’ ideas of American teens
Please don’t dignify doggerel poetry with serious comments. She may be the richest woman in the entire hemisphere but in my view she wasn’t even worth a limerick
I hereby invite contributions, in the McGonagall manner, to a competition, prize a bottle of Glenfyddich, whose end is a poem in praise of Gina Rinehart and her dynasty, past and future.
This is a serious offer.
While the globe is welping under the weight of debt, poverty and strife
Gina with her billions now is pleading to enjoy a better life
Her hope lies with resources buried deep within the earth
With the conniving and the capital which give each project worth
Is her future threatened with massive debts run up by political hacks?
Who misrepresent the people by covering Gina’s back?
What about your kids Gina? What about the law?
“Nonsense jealous swine, you’re in my way of more”
Some dull instruments I know of have been conned
To think a state can be managed by waving a magic wand
Through such unfortunate ignorance, too much abuse is hurled
Against democracy, culture and workers rights, who strive to build the world
Read a book, embrace philantropy and pay your way you nasty eh hem, (what was it your old man said?)
Stop stuffing your face with tim tams that you got from selling ore
The world’s poor need some food too: do not leave them to their fate
While you lavish yourself with luxury, usurp government, and spread hate.
Very fine William.
If only she would take it to heart.
I wrote this in February as a direct response.
I received limited acclaim for my line “life seems a continuum of romance evaporating” and John Clarke retitled one of my poems as “Personal Graffiti”.
I’m the real Mark Latham.
I should have been Whitlam’s prodigal son.
No one in Australia is more qualified for the role of William McGonagall than I, except I don’t drink wine and although this assumption I stand on with a sore cement certainty, I have been cursed sociologically, doomed as it were to play the role of the observer.
Like a Vernon Wolfe.
I am the literary Mundine.
Ugly, decrepit, hated, stared at.
A spider with more eyes than you can count, more hairs on each leg than you can poke a stick at. Each leg is a wedge between the classes, between the distinctions. I only ever weave webs when the mood strikes, the socialist spider, so starkly aware of his treasonous constipation.
I could sell you billions of tubes of Colgate, for fruit man. Fruit.
I can’t afford a house that’s true, no little piece of land for me.
I choose to escape on breaks to the bush, I dream of days similar to those described by Bob Ellis in Tasmania.
Think ‘Le Grand Boeuf’
Think Gina Rinehart.
Pray.
It’s not a haiku but it’s in the zone.
Send her a dozen oysters Kilpatrick.
Won’t that arouse her sexually?
after a certain income level the only sexual arousal is prompted by “a boot stamping on a human face — forever”
I’m so, so glad you said that.
Welcome to these columns.
Write often.
Oh I don’t know – Clive Palmer lists litigation as one of his hobbies.
Many of the super rich have nothing better to do with themselves or their money apparently.
It may well arouse her sexually but if she explodes mid act, as it were, it should make the Murdoch press. In the sporting section
Itself may well arouse her sexually but if she explodes mid act, as it were, it should make the Murdoch press. In the sporting section.
Rolling in money like Scrooge McDuck,
I challenge you all to try your luck
Fairfax I’ll screw over fine
SMH, The Age they’ll all be mine
And as for the plebs, I don’t give a fuck!
Oh man! That rhyme was only ever going one place from the opening line.
You want surprises?
The Three Musketeers advanced on D’Artagnan,
Who growled deep in his throat and called a curse upon them all.
D’Artagnan quickly drew his sword and slashed it savagely at Athos’ head, then turned on Portos with evil intent raised his sword high – and cut up a side alley.
Big Gina Reinhart, our mining heiress,
launched a cruise missile – her own Polaris!
Up it went right over Eastern Australia,
Bang! it struck! Labor paraphernalia!
How the Left despise her wealth,
Hope to remove her from Fairfax by stealth.
But Gina Reinhart steers Fairfax receipts,
Up 18 percent she needs to win three seats!
“Give me a place on the board!” she routs,
Whilst Conroy and Gillard eat their brussels sprouts,
Scheming Age journalists plan a mighty revolt.
Whilst Gina installs as editor her favourite, Andrew Bolt!
So dear friends how will this story end?
It’s beyond my wit to suggest or comprehend.
A fine sonnet, Frank.
Sorry, this is a truly execrable effort.
Rinehart the lionheart,
I saw you once and then again,
On the telly, Channel 10
First time you was young and lissome,
Later, older, yer lost yer glisten
Richer than Midas
With hips as wide as
Gina I reckon you’re
a babacanoochier
Babe, my lust for ya’s futile,
I heard ya only thrust for rutile,
and zinc, and iron, it makes ya rich,
Yeh, makes ya rich, ya metallic bitch
Sandgroper Gina, ya ain’t no kiwi
Nor Chinese, no squat to wee-wee
Yer a bonzer Aussie sheila, fair dinkum
Keep up the fight gal, and you’ll lick ‘em
Yo Roger, Michael, Greg & Sandra,
Yo Sam, Linda, Rob & Peter,
Better get ready, you’re gonna greet her
For she’s mounting to board the board,
So make way, stand aside, or be gored
LOL for this one especilly for ‘the metallic bitch’, most original and creative in content…
Beautiful hole in dessert ground
that’s where Gina’s digging down.
Resource bounty shipped away
lines her pockets day by day.
Won’t share the minerals rent resource pie
And global warming she’ll deny.
She’ll buy Monkton
She’ll buy Abbott
She’ll buy Fairfax,
out of habit.
Gillard has no defensive armour,
when fat Gina brings fat Palmer.
Bullshit walks and money talks
Abbott panders, Gillard squawks
Nobody stands in Gina’s way,
even family have to pay.
Funds in trust to be released,
send a lawyer, send a priest.
When she sits a god’s left hand
Half his stipend she’ll demand
For the clay from Adam’s rib
Lang laid claim to in the crib
Mankind owes her evermore
We sold our soul to the company store.
Excellent in parts, HG! May need more work on the last stanza. Oh, and desert has one ‘s’ though I’ll lay odds Gina loves her desserts all too well.
Ah shucks! I’m claiming poetic license, and you’re stealing Helvi’s thunder.
I only comment on spelling when the result is amusing : one example was “those preying churchmice” in one religionist article.
If I tried correcting the spelling in these blogs it’d be like painting the Harbour Bridge.
Those billions pleading for our ore to save them from their doom
Will add some more momentum to this lucrative boom
Never mind that many of the world’s poor live in countries replete with high value resources.
That’s the kind of lefty thing you say after three years in taxpayer funded university arts courses.
We heave and groan
when hearing Gina’s moan
the pillows are witness
to loves so listless
we make our choice
Iron ore from red to rust
it’s life’s fate return to dust
money bites like lawless dogs
instead of the croak of frogs
we make our choice, and after…
a riot of silence
Gorrd, I have to stop laughing, they are all good in their own unique way…
On the first read, I’d give Hudson the first prize, it’s more like an old-fashioned doggerell.
The others are more in today’s free-style, whatever that is,emotive love songs to Gina
Families may come and go,
But holes in the ground,
They float my boat.
Ellis, who’s he -
Nothing at all care I
For literature, culture,
It’s nothing to me.
Give me more billions,
Don’t get in my way.
And to those who write poetry
This I say : Bugger you all
With a 12 gauge and pass
Me more of Jack Cowin’s KFC.
I expect that everyone has heard it referred to as “The Sydney Mining Herald”.
Attend the very interesting tale of Gina Rinehart
Who often seemed prone not to give a fart
She loved her dear old dad Lang Hancock to bits,
even though, or perhaps because, he was an aborigine-poisoning shit,
(or maybe he just wanted to – I don’t know, I’ll have to google it)
Don’t give up your day job, Poly
Your prose, though, I do like . . .
Thanks, Doug _ I can only say in my own defence it’s supposed to be McGonagall bad
Nah, you’re right – on second thoughts it sucks
Not quite a poem as your erudite fans have written, but this is to the tune of EVIE by Stevie Wright
——
She’s got the money in her pocket
The channel 10 board in her hands
She got herself a couple of shares
Now Fairfax is taking Abbotts stand
Oh big girl let’s get on your shoes
Give the libs more sound
C’mon girl you know there ain’t no time
Mining tax starts now
Gina, Gina, Gina takin Fairfax down
Gina, Gina, Gina takin Fairfax down
Gina, Gina, Gina takin Fairfax down
Gina takin Fairfax down