Attend the tale of Godwin Grech,
The poor, unprepossessing wretch,
His life one long and ugly itch,
His soul, at forty, black as pitch.
He was not handsome, tall or rich.
He learned too soon that life’s a bitch.
He learned to grovel, beg and fetch,
And smile a smile that Leak might sketch.
And Malcolm thought, well here’s a snitch.
We’ll prod him, and we’ll watch him twitch,
And leave him, like a salted leech,
To froth and bubble, far from reach.
And so it came to pass, poor wretch,
The shadows closed on Godwin Grech.
They flung him, shrieking, in a ditch.
You could not see which end was which.
These Liberals never, never flinch.
They suck your soul out, inch by inch,
And give the rack its final wrench.
They think themselves the Ubermensch.
They branded him the Christmas Grinch,
And left him for the mob to lynch.
Attend the fate of Godwin Grech,
Whose tapeworm grin made strong men retch.
He may, or may not, end in gaol.
There go, graceless, Primates, we. Wassail.
Name:
Reading this makes me proud to be a Lib. Looking forward to WorkChoices II: Doom Unleashed in the Gulags of Tony Abbott’s Budgie-Smugglers and the endless poems that this will inspire Bob to finally mount the peak of literary greatness! Perhaps near a billiard table?
Go fuck yourself. Frequently.
Or write a better poem.