Poem of The week 19/11/10

MISUNDERSTOOD

I'm very sad to have to write a poem so negative,
About a class of person with so very much to give.
An open‑hearted person, both generous and good,
Who, tragically, I’d have to say, is just misunderstood.

I like to write of happy things, enhancing daily life,
Avoid contentious issues, for they only lead to strife.
But sadly, I must comment on, what’s causing current rancour,
It’s the most unfair reporting by the media, on the banker.

Government and Opposition are joining the attack
On the poor defenceless bankers. They want them on the rack.
That’s not fair. The media has caused this cruel perception,
By portraying banks as grasping. What a low deception.

The banker is a noble person, kind and philanthropic.
Only happy to be charging fees quite microscopic.
And the thought of upping interest rates, is torture to their soul.
The happiness of customers is their collective goal.

One target of the media scorn, is the salaried CEO.
Grab for cash whilst working. Much more when they go.
Take the Big Bank, for example, sixteen point two million dollars,
And this just makes the critics hot under their collars.

That’s only four hundred and thirty nine thousands,
two hundred and thirty two dollars every day.
When you think that through, it’s quite a reasonable pay.
CEOs do have to live. They have to eat, and dress.
How can we expect them to struggle through on less?

And reported record profits. That’s not a banking perk.
It’s all down to the CEOs’ brilliance, and hard work.
So what if fees are going up, and businesses must close,
And foreclosing on some mortgages is somewhat on the nose.

Those higher interest rates will help us in the end.
I know, a banker told me so. The banker is my friend.
He's doing me a favour. How, I don't quite know,
But that Bankers in the media plainly told me so.

It must be hard to be a banker in this current age,
When criticism’s rife, on every media page.
They shrug of the slings and arrows. Are forever optimistic.
The description of a banker… ‘misunderstood’ and ‘altruistic’.

The banker is the person with the brains and expertise,
And none ‑ not politics or media ‑ should dare to criticise
High interest rates, and increased fees. It’s all for your own good.
Your banker’s not a bastard. He's just misunderstood.

BLUE ‑ the shearer (copyright col wilson)

Poem for the week 12/11/10

She's not a happy little Vegemite
HILARY CLINTON’S VISIT

What excitement down in Melbourne. We have had a visit,
From Hilary Clinton, USA. It was so exquisite.
Got a kiss from Kevin. She called him, by mistake,
Prime Minister, but no one cared. Well for goodness sake.

It was just a slip of the tongue, nothing too peculiar,
And I’m sure there was no awkwardness, when she met with Julia.
She had a stroll round Melbourne, with security in tow.
The public was kept well away from where she chose to go.

Strolled along the Yarra, taking in the sights.
Feasting with her eyes on Melbourne’s optical delights.
Everyone seemed happy. Conversation light,
Until she cast an ugly slur on our sacred Vegemite.

A lot of fashion critics made comments on her suit,
From slightly complimentary, to almost reporting ‘cute’.
None of them, however, was brave enough to say,
That the colour evoked echoes of Guantanamo Bay.

A private meal with Julia. I don’t know what they ate,
But I’m sure that the consensus was that the food was great.
If I had been the caterer, I’d have been exhilarated,
To prepare the meal, serve it, and be there when Hilary ate it.
Look. I do apologise. I should have heeded caution.
Not yielded to temptation of such hideous rhyme distortion.

But back to that visit. Her schedule makes me dizzy,
Meeting, and more meetings. She really has been busy.
Met with Mr Abbott. I don’t know what they talked about,
But I’m sure, that given time, details will come out.

Innovative solar plan was next on the agenda
She wants to make it cheaper, and with Julia send a
Message to all Nations that they ought to do it too.
That seems to indicate both think climate change is true.

Hilary and Julia went into a huddle,
Determined, both, to save the globe from all men-based muddle.
Discussing everything from Afghanistan to China,
Convinced, that when they finished, the world would be much finer.

The Hilary Clinton visit was labelled a success.
Julia and Kevin basked, Tony, somewhat less.
A credit to America. Foreign policy shining light.
BUT it would have been much nicer, if she’d liked our Vegemite.

BLUE -- the shearer (copyright col wilson)

Poem for the week 5/11/10

They should change the name of the program from Q & A to Shoe & A and John Howard should be a 'shoe-in' for interviewee of the year.

SHOE THROWING TANTRUMS

I threw a shoe the other day, and it felt really good.
I’d pondered on it for a while, and wondered if I should.
I’d seen it on the ABC, when someone on a whim,
Looked at an ex prime minister, and then threw two at him.

Mind you, the shoe I threw, was an experiment,
There wasn’t any malice. Not much energy was spent.
I wondered why he did it. What was the attraction,
And if you missed the target, where was the satisfaction?

I wondered if the thrower, when he launched his shoe attack,
Had thought through his actions. Would he get his footwear back?
When taken into custody, and locked up in the stocks,
What about the wear and tear that’s happened to his socks?

Would he feel a real ‘heel’? Would he wrestle with his ‘sole’
Would his shame be ‘upper’ most? Had he achieved his goal.
I noticed that the shoe assailant did look rather young,
Would he regret his rhetoric? Would he bite his ‘tongue’?

I don’t see the benefit in hurling pairs of shoes.
With the price of footwear, I can’t afford to lose
Protection for my tootsies. I would regret the loss.
There must be other ways of showing people I was cross.

Since I watched the episode, on the program, Q and A,
I’ve done a bit of research, on the culture of the day,
Hoping to come up with an explanatory result,
And I found that, in some, in some cultures, it’s a serious insult.

You don’t throw shoes at those you like, someone you want to please,
The objects of the shoe attacks are mostly enemies.
I remember when George Dubbya Bush was on the target end
Of a well publicised attack, and it wasn’t from a friend.

It may well be the current fad, but I could not do it.
I don’t have much in common with the bloke who threw it.
I’ve thought about it quite a lot. Shoe throwing’s not for me.
Too many reasons not to, four that I can see.

One. I don’t have the temperament to generate ferocity,
And without that angst, I’d not gain maximum velocity.
Two. I like my shoes too much, once they’re worn in.
To jettison such footwear is an economic sin.

Three. Aerodynamically, as missiles, shoes are quite unsuitable,
Not like a javelin or spear. Those facts are irrefutable.
Fourth (and last). This footwear fad, I would not be employing,
Because, for me, and for my shoe, I’d find it ‘sole’ destroying.

BLUE -- the shearer (copyright col wilson)

Poem of the week 29/10/10

Mixed feelings about this one. It's difficult to find something nice to write about politicians or bankers.

SUPERJOE

Is it a man? Is it a plane? Is it a UFO?
No. It isn’t any of them. It is SUPERJOE.
SUPERJOE, our latest hero, deserving of our thanks,
Our self-appointed champion taking on the banks.

SUPERMAN (outdated now) condemned by age, to suffer,
Used to think that he was tough, but SUPERJOE is tougher.
About to tackle interest rates that call for rearranging,
He just needs to find a ‘phone box, big enough to change in.

Wearing underpants outside, a logo on this chest,
Saying: “Of all the SUPERHEROES, SUPERJOE is best.”
SUPERJOE is ready, and with one gigantic leap
Into incredulity, he’ll put an end to interest creep.

His colleagues were luke-warm at best, and unenthusiastic,
And thought that SUPERJOE was bordering on the drastic.
Of course it comes as no surprise, though not supporting bankers,
The Government saw SUPERJOE as some glory hunting wanker.

But in the banking industry, each presiding CEO,
Was quaking in his/her footwear for fear of SUPERJOE.
Profits might be soaring. Reputations not worth tuppence,
And there are many believing, that it’s time for their comeuppance.

Invincibility the cloak, keeps SUPERJOE intact,
And that together with his latest ploy he calls ‘Social Compact’
Will have the bankers cowering, and calling for a truce,
Unconditional surrender, and the interest rates hang loose.

The Reserve Banks looks on warily. I’d advance a guess,
That SUPERJOE is one hero, with whom they dare not mess.
Would the ‘Compact’ have an impact? Would CEOs stay cowed?
Would Wayne Swan DARE to contradict? And would John Winston Howard

Presume to give to SUPERJOE, treasury type advice?
After all, he DID bring down the budget, once or twice.

Time will tell if SUPERJOE has won this interest battle,
But it’s high time that someone gave the bankers’ cage a rattle.
So, good on you, SUPERJOE. One thing I do know,
If I have a problem with the banks, I’ll send for SUPERJOE.

BLUE -- the shearer (copyright col wilson)

Poem of the week 22/10/2010

When an immovable body of water, meets an unstoppable flow of hot air.......................

MURRAY DARLING

Is there water in the Murray, Darling? Sweetheart, I don’t know.
With all that recent rain about, there ought to be a flow.
I know there’s lots of friction. Far more than the norm,
And it has to do with irrigators, water, and reform.

It’s been the cry for many a year -- “What’s wrong with the Murray?”
We’re going to have to fix it, and to fix it in a hurry.
I know. We’re sick and tired of all those comments so divisory,
We’ll form a new committee, both learned and advisory.

Now the Murray irrigators were anything but pleased,
And shunned the recommenders as though they were diseased.
They even called them wankers, and showed them all the gate.
Not very edifying in the terms of sane debate.

‘Livelihood’ was mentioned. So was ‘killing towns’,
and it was apparent, there were far less ups than downs.
Forecasts for the future, one would have to say, were dire,
And copies of the findings were gleefully set on fire.

There were arguments in Parliament, that’s not too surprising,
Discussions, confrontations, farmer’s tempers rising.
The Government decreed that there would be a new committee,
Headed by an independent, one not from the city.

Everyone, it seemed, was forever busy chasin’
A viable solution to save the Murray Darling Basin.
Too many water licences, and that caused such disunity,
Between environmentalists, and each farming community.

The authority, charged with reform, and desperate to succeed
Launched ANOTHER inquiry, to address the need
Of towns along the river, AND the environment,
To secure a balance to present to Parliament.

With this gaggle of committees, authorities, and the like,
Government inquiries, experts, all prepared to strike
A blow for new reform, to safeguard precious water,
That should solve the problem, well, at least, it ought to.

So, with all those brilliant minds working to resolve
A better water system, still waiting to evolve
Into a pristine river with pure and constant flow,
Will it fix the Murray, darling? Sweetheart, I don’t know.

BLUE -- the shearer (copyright col wilson)

Poem of the week 15/10/10

I don't think I'll be applying for any frequent flyer points.

JETLAG

I had a sort of nightmare, just the other week,
And woke up feeling jaded, kind of past my peak.
I dreamed that I’d been flying. My nerves were raw, and jagged.
And the reason was -- I’d jetted, and having jetted, I was lagged.

Yes, this jetlag is a bugger. A serious condition,
And it plays havoc on the utterances of a travelling politician.
Especially is it dangerous. One might even call it sinister,
When you’re going to a meeting with a conservative Prime Minister.

I might have slurred my words a bit. That would be embarrassing,
Knowing that the Government and the media would be harassing
Should I make some faux pas of a verbal inclination,
Not that I would do that. I make that stipulation.

I don’t have to worry though, for I woke up with no dramas
Safe and sound. Non-threatened, as I stripped of my pyjamas.
Still, it got me thinking about those travels overseas,
By our National leaders to meet those V I Ps.

What would happen if they didn’t go? Ever thought of that?
Would they suffer badly, if they wore a local hat?
Is there sufficient reason for diplomatic travel,
When surely there are problems here for them to unravel?

Would Tony meeting Cameron win him many votes?
Julia meeting Obama? I hope you’re taking notes.
Would our Nation be worse off if they all stayed at home,
Or do WE need a break from THEM, and THAT’S why we let them roam?
Do we MISS them when they’re gone? We seem to do OK.

It’s really quite relieving to NOT hear what they say.
And if they REALLY have to go, as seems, is the tradition,
Is special care paid to their travelling position?
Does protocol dictate, that during every flight
Labor sits near the left wing, and the liberals near the right?
The Greens and Independents, do they have a special place?
And let’s not forget the Nationals, who hold them in disgrace.

We might as well accept it. They’ll do as they please,
Picking up their brownie points, as they fly overseas.
It’s a special lurk they have, and they all love to grab it,
The travel bug’s so strong, that they just can’t break the Abbott.

BLUE -- the shearer (copyright col wilson)

Poem of the Week 8/10/10

One of my pet hates, and it seems an appropriate time to share it with you.

DAYLIGHT SAVING

My body clock is on the blink, I don't know what the time is.
It's hard to turn my mind to what the subject of this rhyme is.
I haven't had a drink for days ‑ I'm stone‑cold, rigid sober.
I just go to pieces at the start of each October.

I've seen it come. I've seen it go. You think I'd be inured,
To this yearly aberration. The pain that I’ve endured,
The sense of devastation. Oh! The object of my raving,
Is nothing short of torture. It's daylight‑bloody‑saving.

If God had wanted daylight‑saving, as part of the creation,
It would have been included, and saved this aggravation.
It would have saved the need to think of ways to bug the voters
From the torture of invoking those unneeded daylight quotas.

But no, our civic fathers, must decide to legislate,
To introduce disruption to the people of our state.
Daylight saving haters, (and there must be more than me)
Must suffer through the summer, this vile iniquity.

It's not like me to mention any Government duplicity,
But does it have a lot to do with saving electricity?
What does daylight‑saving do? I mean, what is it for?
Does it give us less daylight? Does it give us more?

This matter's occupied my mind. Why fix what ain’t broke?
I’ve come to the conclusion that it’s some nightmarish joke
Thought up by a Government looking for excuses,
To take our minds off stuff-ups and electoral abuses.

Which is more important? How our Parliament’s behaving?
Point scoring and back stabbing? Or daylight‑bloody‑saving?
Threats of war, cost of living, education, drought?
Daylight‑saving gives us something REAL to whinge about.

Country kids who bus to school, the mums and dads who send them,
Faded tattered curtains, and the women who must mend them.
Farmers, and their cows of course. Poor defenceless fowls,
Folk who find that daylight‑saving's murder on their bowels.

People living in the west, who must endure quite soon,
The never‑ending, scorching, daylight‑saving afternoon.
Parents of those little kids, who can't sleep in the light ‑‑
Ask those people what they think. I bet they'll say I'm right.

So now you know my theory. An electorate tormented,
Can't concentrate on trivia. That's why it was invented,
Just to take our minds of politicians' raving,
And that's the only reason friends, why we have daylight saving.

BLUE the shearer (copyright col wilson)

Poem for the week 1/10/10

Most of you on the list won't have met Dave Meyers who passed away last week. He was a special person, and will be sadly missed.
This week's offering explores the REAL reason for all the natural disasters sweeping the world.

I'll be away from tomorrow for a few days, so you're getting the pome a bit early.

What in the world is happening? I’m really quite perturbed.
I’ve never seen those weather maps so violently disturbed.
Lethal floods throughout the globe. Seventeen metre waves.
That is not how I expect our climate to behave.

I’ve read about the Chaos Theory, and as I understand it.
It all starts at a crucial point where some butterfly has landed,
And if that butterfly should flap its wings, somewhere in the world,
A dreadful cyclone is unleashed, where thunderbolts are hurled.

I don’t believe that for a minute. The butterfly is cast as
The villain of the piece for all natural disasters?
That’s just so much balderdash. Deadly conflagrations,
Earthquakes, floods and locust plagues, have other explanations.
If they’re caused by a butterfly, imagine how much more
Damage and destruction, with Bob Katter going full bore.

I blame the Independents. They turned things upside down.
Disturbed the natural scheme of things in every part of town.
They didn’t want corruption, and inaction as the norm.
No! They buggered up the system, and opted for reform.
No wonder Mother Nature took exception to events.
And responded with catastrophes and flooded Continents.

It might not be the climate change that gets us in a flap,
Maybe Mr Abbott’s right. It’s just a lot of crap.
So all the scientists are wrong. It’s not carbon emissions
Causing all the trouble. It’s independent politicians.

While the balance is disturbed and we’re in for much, much worse.
It gives me things to write about in my weekly verse.
I haven’t even mentioned yet, the looming plague of hoppers,
Or that carbon credit discussion is going like the Kloppers.

What I find disturbing, and potentially, quite vexing,
Is those infernal Independents, and all that muscle flexing.

There are some doubting Thomases, who query my position;
Claim my arguments are faulty, and say I lack precision.
They LIKE the Independents, and say they’re not to blame
For natural disasters, and they dispute my claim.

I’m sure I’m not mistaken. The evidence is strong
That those independents are to blame. I am seldom wrong.
Still, to err on the side of caution, a quiet word to the wise --
Stay away from Katters, and beware of butterflies.

BLUE -- the shearer (copyright col wilson)

Poem for the week 24th September

A welcome and unexpected break from politics.
I had written a type of current affairs/politics, but I received a call from a 9 year old boy from just out of Geraldton in W A. He was keen to hear the poem 'Haitch for Hippo' again, and since his name was Colin, and most of my fans are over seventy, I was more than happy to oblige. I hope he enjoyed it. I should warn you, it doesn't really have a message.
HAITCH FOR HIPPO

I loved that hippopotamus. I bought it for a pet.
He wasn’t hard to care for. He seemed to like the wet.
I called him ‘Haitch’ for Hippo. He ate a lot, for sure,
But he kept the town and neighbourhood supplied with fresh manure.

There were some disadvantages, he howled when it was raining,
And I had a bit of trouble with his inside toilet training.
Haitch was quite affectionate, which was a bit concerting.
‘Cos he couldn’t jump up on my knee without it really hurting.

The problems really started, though, when we got the cat.
Haitch became quite jealous. I should have thought of that,
For when the cat jumped on the chair, Haitch thought he should too,
That’s not a good thing for a hippopotamus to do.

My wife reacted angrily. I thought: Now what a lot of fuss
Over one small lounge chair broken by a hippopotamus.
But when the front veranda steps collapsed beneath his weight,
I realised that Haitch might have to, well, sort of, emigrate.

“I’m sick of your exotic pets.” My darling wife expounded.
You don’t know how that wounded me. How un-petlike she sounded.
Then she threw up, quite unfairly, the zebra and the lion.
I thought they’d be compatible, but I built a little shrine,

To Zeb the Zebra’s memory, up beneath the trees,
The lion went back to Dubbo Zoo, with the thirteen chimpanzees.
“That hippopotamus must go. It’s either him, or you.”
I could see no point in arguing. What was I to do?

I walked him back to Dubbo Zoo, which sounds a bit bizarre,
But though I tried, no way was there that he’d fit in the car.
I visit him occasionally, but he treats me with ignore,
Haitch the hippo simply doesn’t like me any more.

I know I hurt him deeply, when I pushed him off the bed.
For I saw a little hippo tear run down his hippo head.

I miss his friendly greetings. His happy, hippo smile,
Those homely heaps of hippo pooh upon the carpet pile.
I’d like to get another pet, but my unforgiving spouse,
Says: “I will not let you keep a boa constrictor in the house.”

BLUE -- the shearer (copyright col wilson)

Pome for the weak 17/9/10

This week, I'm filled with the milk of human kindness. I do hope it will last.

KIND AND GENTLE PARLIAMENT

I love this brand new Parliament, and it’s due to Mr Abbott.
He was the one that first suggested how to break the habit
Of vicious confrontation. He might be temperamental,
But he talked of a Parliament, more kind, and more gentle.

I could see his comments struck a spark in the minds of politicians,
And already, I have noticed a softening of traditions.
It’s almost as though they all received some guidance from above,
And now we’re to have a Parliament that’s truly based on love.

It’s only early days, but I’m beginning to see some sense.
It’s starting with the Nationals. They love the Independents.
The Independents love each other. That’s quite plain to see.
Katter, Oakeshott, Windsor, they’re as cosy as can be.

The Liberals love the Nationals. Isn’t it refreshing?
Much better than the insults, the writhing, and the threshing.
They’re a cuddly Coalition. Neighbour loving neighbour,
And reaching out, embracing, and showing their love for Labor.

Even Wilson Tuckey has caught the loving bug.
He’s trying to find Tony Crook, to give him a great big hug.
His press conference inspired me. I’d really like to meet him,
And congratulate him on his love for that Mr Crook who beat him.

I know the Coalition was extremely disappointed,
When Julia got the numbers, and as PM, was anointed.
But they did not dwell on that. They’ve put it ALL behind,
And begun their Opposition being gentle, being kind.

The Greens, well they love everyone. Liberal and Labor.
The Independents, Nationals. They won’t shake their sabre.
Mr Abbott SAID ‘ferocious’ that Independents’ day,
But I’m sure he MEANT ‘ferocious’ in a kind and gentle way.

And as for the Gillard Government, the loving transformation,
Will do away with factions; an example for the Nation.
No more stabbings in the back. No more hands with blood on.
No more coups like the one that moved poor Kevin Rudd on.

I see a wondrous time ahead, with all of this unfurled.
Our kind and gentle Parliament, the envy of the world.
This is our chance for happiness, and I think we should grab it,
And honour the man who started it, that lovely Mr. Abbott.

BLUE -- the shearer (copyright col wilson)

Poem for week 10th Sept.

It was the only game in town this week.

PARLIAMENTARY PARADIGM

Joy! Oh joy! Success at last. The Parliamentary Palace.
Did Julia get the Holy Grail, or was it the Poisoned Chalice?
Is Julia rejoicing? Is there trepidation
For a shaky PM? The leader of our Nation?

I imagine things were difficult, with each independent
Wielding so much influence, powerful and resplendent.
It must have been quite tempting. So hard to resist,
When making their demands on each separate wish list.

Apart from stable Government, and other things like that,
Bob Katter might have sought to have a brand new hat,
To run the rivers inland, a new commercial clime,
And copyright for his new word -- he loves it, ‘paradigm’.

Andrew Wilkie might have asked, apart from things that matter,
For John Howard’s head presented to him on a platter.
He’s a former whistle blower, and so for a start he
Might have asked to entertain a whistle blowers’ party.

Rob Oakeshott sought stability. A Government that would last.
Something somewhat different from the shambles of the past.
He says that he wanted a real commitment on the table,
And from Chartres Towers came the cry: “I’m Katter, and I’m stable.”

Tony Windsor, quite experienced, pragmatic and reliable,
Wanted this next Government to be seen as viable.
Worried that the opposition might seek a new election,
And didn’t seem to want to be involved in that direction.

Now, I’m a simple voter. I have a wish list too,
A list of ‘dos’ and ‘don’ts’ from a voter’s point of view.
No insulting comments. Less juvenile behaviour.
Some adult discussion for an electorate to savour.

Ban the Dorothy Dixers, they take up so much time,
Let back benchers have a say. It’s a brand new 'paradigm'.
Re-introduce some reason into things like economics.
Forget the TV cameras, and curb the histrionics.

Maybe GOVERN for the country. Not just respond to polls.
It’s really not too much to ask to meet the voter’s goals.
They might be on the centre stage, and worthy of some fuss,
But remember, when all’s said and done, they all work for us.

Well, it’s over, done and dusted. Julia’s our PM,
I wonder if she’s full time, and could she be pro tem?
Have the independents forced a change in our traditions?
I’d like to think they might have, but they are just politicians.

BLUE - the shearer (copyright col wilson) 10/3/10

Poem for week 3rd Sept.

COOKING THEN AND NOW

Bugger politics. Let’s discuss something really important.

With all these cooking programs in absolute profusion,
I’d have to say, that I am left in cuisinic confusion.
Which recipes should I adopt? Which chef should I follow?
Whose advice should I accept on which food I should swallow?

A plethora of cooking shows, and they are multiplying,
Some of those strange recipes are almost death-defying.
The viewing public loves its chefs and cooks on television,
And follow every recipe with blind faith, and precision.

With steak and kidney, eggs and bacon, you knew where you were at.
And no one seemed to mind if there was just a bit of fat.
I know that’s going back in time, but that simple food was good,
Recipe books were simpler, and could be understood.

A shake of salt and pepper, and a little splash of relish,
Was enough for meals in the past. Now you must embellish
Everything that you prepare with every kind of sauce,
And then subject yourself to a herbal tour-de-force.

Meat and veg and gravy. That was good enough for us,
We didn’t need to worry about all this kitchen fuss.
There is nothing better than scrambled eggs on toast,
And as for a Sunday dinner, you just can’t beat a roast.

That was then. These are modern times that I must contend with,
And I would like to find a message I can end with.
With all that is on offering, I must seem a dismal voice,
It’s just that it’s so difficult to make a bloody choice.

First you have to choose between a woman and a fella.
Do I watch Jamie Oliver, or should I prefer Nigella?
Huey’s always down to earth. Is he the way to go?
Would the Cook and the Chef be better, or should I stick with Poh?

All those exotic recipes, from every different culture ,
Native foods from kangaroo, to mountain goat and vulture.
Cooked in every different way, with all those herbs and spices,
In all the old utensils, and all the new devices.

There’s a far more pressing problem, what’s for tea tonight?
What recipe should we choose to spark taste bud delight?
We’ve racked our brains to find one, and what we’d like the most,
(It makes us sound like philistines), but --- it’s that scrambled egg on toast.

BLUE -- the shearer (copyright col wilson) 3/9/10

Poem for week 27th. August

Just when you think it would be so nice to write about something else than politics, along comes a hung parliament.

HUNG PARLIAMENT

Election day is over, and the polling song’s been sung,
Voters have decided that the Parliament should be hung.
No, not in the literal sense, that’s too much to hope for,
But since they can’t form Government, now there is the scope for
A different kind of Government. The electorate has passed sentence,
The major parties find themselves at the mercy of independents.

Cross benches, once were ridiculed, the subject of lampoon.
Now, the cross bench is important, they sing a different tune.
Julia and Tony, if one is to succeed,
They are well aware that it’s the cross bench that they need,

Tony Windsor’s vote for Government is already being wooed.
He’s being treated with respect. Only Barnaby’s been rude.
He’s for stable Government, and will not be stampeded
By the major parties. His support is needed.

Bob Katter seems to relish his new found spotlight status,
Hasn’t said who he’ll support. But it’s clear he caters
For Northern Australia, and reckons that it’s time,
For more attention to be paid to his new word ‘paradigm’.

Rob Oakeshott, he’s a new face in this brand new alliance.
He sees some advantages in electoral defiance.
Stability of Government, Broadband and things like that.
Wont’ be bullied by the majors as to where to hang his hat.

Tony Crook from WA. He has a firm position.
Tony Crook. That’s not a bad name for a politician.
He’s not supporting Julia, after studying all the facts,
And reckons that he’ll oppose the great big mining tax.

Adam Bandt, new man in Parliament. He’s made up his mind
That he’s supporting Julia. He said he cannot find
It in his heart, (because he’s Green) to alter his position,
And does not have the slightest wish to back the Coalition.

Meanwhile, in Tasmania, Labor’s lost another one,
And the career of Andrew Wilkie, has only just begun.
So, at the time of writing, this is how thing’s stand.
The parties are divided, in this divided land.

The election has been stormy, but there is a bright light shining.
Every storm cloud, so they say, has a silver lining.
Let’s look on the bright side, and consider ourselves lucky,
Whoever turns out winning, there’ll be no more Wilson Tuckey.

BLUE - the shearer (copyright col wilson)

Poem for week 20th. August

No prizes for guessing what the pome for the weak is this time.

MARK LATHAM - JOURNALIST EXTRAORDINAIRE

Sometimes I really wonder at the ways some TV stations
Come to choose their journalists. Do they fear the implications
Of some ill-judged selection of a member of their staff,
Or is it open slather? Do they do it for a laugh?

I’ve been a bit bewildered at Nine’s recent choice of Mark.
Mark Latham, retired MP. Did they do it for a lark?
I watched his confrontation with Kevin Rudd’s successor,
Julia Gillard. He did not appear to bless her.

Asked some funny questions, which caused no surprise,
And caused Channel Nine’s Supremo to apologise.
Laurie Oakes was scathing. Even critical of Nine.
Suggesting that Mark Latham, did not know where the line

That he so patently had crossed, was even situated.
It looked as if his new career was to be terminated.
But ‘No’. Mark Latham soldiered on. Sixty Minutes said he ought to
Be a great success as a Channel Nine reporter.

He had a go at Tony Abbott in his TV headline hunting,
But from reports that I have read, he was not as confronting
As he had been some days before, when he accosted Julia.
He might not like the ALP. I find that peculiar.

Did you watch Sixty Minutes? Was he a bit past normal?
He capped it off by saying he was going to vote informal.
He thought a bit outside the square. Poured scorn upon the press.
Bile-ducted both main parties. Declared them both a mess.
Patted Bob Brown on the head (verbally, of course)
And finished with a final Pauline Hanson tour-de-force.

What a lovely couple. What a perfect double.
They might form a party. That could cause some trouble.
I don’t know what they’d call it, and we’d have to wait and see,
Their vision for the future; what their policies might be.

And if they formed a party, I ask you, dear reader,
With such egos on the go, who would be the leader?
Well, whoever got the job, with that decision made,
I would warn the voters. Be afraid. Be very afraid.

Does Mark Latham have a future in the journalistic game?
Will Sixty Minutes launch him on another path to fame?
The general press consensus seems to paint his future dark.
It could well be that Channel Nine’s selection missed its Mark.

BLUE -- the shearer (copyright col wilson)

Poem for week 13th. August>

I don't know about you, but I needed a break from politics this week.
Just watch yourself today.

TRISKAIDEKAPHOBIA

If you're triskaidekaphobic, then this is your big day,
A day designed for triskaidekaphobics, so they say,
Is BLACK FRIDAY. The thirteenth. So watch out what you do,
Or triskaidekaphobia could be the death of you.

Be very, very careful of what you undertake,
The consequences could be dire. The decision that you make
Should have no element of risk. For surely you're aware,
That this if Friday, the thirteenth. Take very special care.

Not that I'm susceptible to silly superstition,
But some folk are. So my advice: "Consider your position.
It may be just some oldwives' tale, but you just watch your back.
Don't cross your knives upon your plate. Don't step upon a crack.

Don't go too close to mirrors. Those shiny sheets of glass
May crack, and cause misfortune. So shun them when you pass.
Of course, this means no mirror when you go to shave your chin,
So keep a basin near at hand to do your bleeding in.

Don't walk beneath a ladder, you may get splashed with paint.
For on Black Friday, the thirteenth, fortunate you ain't.
And be alert, and look around for black cats on this day.
For bad results are forecast, if one should cross your way.

If salt is spilled, then take a pinch, and toss it down your back,
Some say it will protect you from Black Friday type attack.
All your friends will laugh and jeer. But you'll say: "That's alright,
I only have to keep it up 'til twelve o'clock, to‑night."

And just consider what you say. The person that you're rude to,
May be a special kind of witch. The kind that I allude to
Can turn you into cabbages, or make you very poor.
Remember. This is Friday, the thirteenth. I said before,

That triskaidekaphobia, (the terror of thirteen)
Is very rife, this day of days. A pretty dreadful scene.
So watch yourself in traffic, in the kitchen, everywhere.
For triskaidekaphobics, there is danger in the air.

Ah! Triskaidekaphobia I just learned the word today.
And from here on in, I'll try to find excuses, just to say
Triskaidekaphobia. It just rolls off the tongue.
I'll say it daily, and enjoy the pleasure that it brung.

I'll buy a lottery ticket, and I'll call it: Triskaidek.
And when it wins, I'll take it all in cash, and not by cheque.
And really, I don't believe in luck, when all is done and said,
But just the same. Black Friday. I think I'll stay in bed.

BLUE - the shearer (copyright col wilson)

Poem for the week 6th August

I was going to hold my first workshop next week, but I don't think I will now. I worry about whether it would be a success.
Welcome Lynne to the 'elite' list.

These last few weeks have not been good. I’ve been quite depressed
By this electioneering. This country, once so blessed,
Seems to be all doom and gloom. Am I the only one
To think that all the optimists are dead, and buried, gone?

Which ever side of politics you would tend to favour,
Seems to have turned pear-shaped. Completely lost their flavour.
I would not presume, to try to tell you all,
How to fix the problem. Like Kevin, (pause) I don’t have the gall.

The only positive I see, since we’re all depressed, let’s face it.
Pessimism rules today, so, let us all embrace it.
Let us all be Doomsday Sayers. Honour gloom and doom.
With messages of failure, let’s decorate the room.

My vision of an industry that’s celebrating failure,
And the death of optimism, would seem to fit Australia.
I’ll be a doomsday guru. That should work a treat.
And run workshops with the acolytes sitting at my feet.

I know there have been others, pretenders to the throne,
Like bankers, miners, politicians, all of who’ve been prone
To paint the blackest pictures, but I want this done right.
Nationalise the industry. Gird up the loins, and fight.

Adopt this new direction. Deport all who resist,
We will be the Nation of the modern pessimist.
Forecast the next financial crash. The flood, the coming drought.
Future wars and pestilence. There isn’t any doubt

That pessimistic future is just going from strength to strength,
Optimism’s had it, we’ll go to any length
To make your life a misery. Our future is assured.
Reputation’s guaranteed, at home here, and abroad.

When Telstra shares go plummeting to an all time low,
We will look concerned, and say: “Well. We told you so.”
And when Armageddon comes, we’ll try to look contrite,
And wear that smug, contented look, and say that: “We were right.”

A new force in our politics, the Pessimistic Party,
With so much doom and gloom about, our future’s looking hearty.
I’ll declare myself the leader, albeit self- anointed,
And the best thing is, that pessimists are never disappointed.
(Unless things go right)

BLUE -- the shearer (copyright col wilson) 6/8/10

Poem for the week 30/7/10

I think I've left it to late for this season's New Invention program. Ah well, there's always next year.

SELECTIVE HIBERNATION

You can learn a lot from animals, if you take time to observe,
How they cope with crisis, their lifestyle to preserve.
Take polar bears, for instance. When they get in a state,
They don’t throw a tantrum. They just hibernate.

Other creatures do it too. They cope with agitation,
And threatening behaviour by using hibernation.
Bats and squirrels, rodents, hedgehogs, monotremes,
Even rattlesnakes, I’m told, take refuge in their dreams.

If animals can do it, is it too much too expect
That humans should be able, with superior intellect,
To come up with a system, individually subjective,
Of a type of hibernation, events based, and selective?

A hibernation system, but of a different kind.
Not as a bodily function. Hibernation of the mind.
Switched on and off, as needed. To be triggered when required,
With freedom of the spirit, and tranquillity desired.

‘Selective Hibernation’, or SH for short,
Could be utilised for those not too keen on sport.
Boring conservationists, banished from the psyche,
Along with any subject manner, you happen to no likee.

I’d like to file a patent for ‘Selective Hibernation’,
And sell it as a way of life, ensuring separation
From unwelcome distractions, such as TV advertising,
Or political debates, which you wont find surprising.

The scheme would need some ‘trigger’ words to activate the process,
Like ‘Gillard’, ‘Abbott’, ‘politics’. Now I must confess
That I have found some glitches in this SH system.
When doing early research, I don’t know how I missed ‘em.

The biggest drawback I can see, which could cause folk to scoff,
Is once you’ve turned SH on, how do you turn it off?
‘Selective Hibernation’ is still a proposition,
To counter boring promises, and boring politicians.

But I’ve gone back to the drawing board. Put some faults on the shelf,
I think the only way to go, is to try it on my self.
So if you see my face go blank, my eyes begin to spin,
When you mention ‘politics’, it’s just SH cutting in.
And should I chance to stay like that, when all the spin’s been spun,
I should be back to normal after August twenty-one.

BLUE -- the shearer (copyright col wilson)

Poem for the week 21 July

Welcome Paul to the 'elite' list.
No politics this week for a change. I want one of these for a pet.

PAUL, THE PSYCHIC OCTOPUS

Well, the World Cup’s finally over, and the crowds have all gone home,
Perhaps it’s time to summarise the action in a pome,
Australia and New Zealand did not get too far.
Paul, the psychic octopus became the shining star.

By picking every winner, defying all the odds,
Paul became the hero of all cephalopods.
He’s not a boastful octopus. He made no claim to fame,
And he humbly picked the winner of every World Cup Game.

Paul the psychic octopus, lived in a tank,
Looked at all the nations’ flags, and pulled them out by rank.
Never chose a loser, made headlines every day,
That’s how you pick the world cup in an octopussy way.

Sceptics never really believed that Paul the Octopus,
Had forecast abilities. They kicked up quite a fuss.
But now the Spanish Nation has the World Cup in its clutch,
Everybody believes in Paul, except perhaps, the Dutch.

I would not be the least surprised, if people tried to get,
A Paul type octopussy, for a punting pet.
Bookmakers would panic, and I would understand
If they formed a union and tried to have them banned.

The start of a new industry. Octopussy clubs.
A buying rush at Bunnings for Octopussy tubs.
What do octopuses eat? I’m sure that someone knows,
And will make a motza when demand for dinner grows.

Has Paul reached his zenith? Don’t you think it rather odd,
That the World Cup headline grabber is this cephalopod?
The players may be fitter, more skilful, even faster,
But they don’t hold a candle to this tank based forecaster.

What will be Paul’s future? I don’t know what to think.
Paul could be a journalist. He comes equipped with ink.
Maybe a consultant, with his proven intellect, or
A financial wizard, sought by the banking sector.

TV specials, movies, all of them are keen,
To sign up Paul the Octopus, and show him on the screen.
The media is fighting to publish his life story,
Of his struggle, and the road to his forecasting glory.
Whatever he may choose to do, I see no cause for worry,
Paul could always find a job as instant calamari.

BLUE -- the shearer (copyright col wilson)

Poem for the week 16/7/10

A wee bit of introspection may have crept in to this pome. I don't think I'd like to be Prime Minister, but then again, I don't think you'd like me to be.

POLITICALLY CORRECT

I’m about to take a trip in verse. I may be deemed courageous,
For taking on a subject that could prove disadvantageous.
Political Correctness. It’s a term that has me puzzled.
And by daring to discuss it, some say I should be muzzled.

Our new Prime Minister, Julia, she is one who raised it.
Was it taken out of context? Had she damned it? Had she praised it?
What is Political Correctness? Does it have a definition?
I’m trying to be careful in defining my position.

John Howard, ex Prime Minister, honed it to perfection.
Used it as a weapon, and demanded its rejection.
Those supporting refugees, not viewing them as alien,
Were seen as Politically Correct, and therefore, un-Australian.

With the argument now raging about border protection,
It seems that Julia Gillard may seek a new direction.
Toughen up the process, our Nation to protect,
Is that what our PM means as Politically Correct?

I don’t THINK that I’m elitist, but occasionally I may,
Take issue with some racist, or sip some chardonnay.
So that is my dilemma. What IS the prescription
For Political Correctness? I’d like a clear description.

Is it wrong to show some sympathy for asylum seekers?
Is it wrong to show support for opposition speakers?
Is it just a grab for votes, to show who is the tougher,
A cynical disregard for those who have to suffer?

Is there room, in policy, for genuine compassion?
Or is such a sentiment completely out of fashion?
Is the term ‘open discussion’ some kind of invitation,
For hate and fear to surface? Are we that kind of Nation?

Are we seeking, honestly, a real contribution,
To come up with a sensible, humanitarian solution?
Will East Timor do the trick? Will the Indian Ocean,
Rather than Pacific, be a more attractive notion?

Politics is politics. A simple fact of life.
Let’s be realistic, and embrace unending strife
As for ‘Political Correctness’, I’m not sure where I stand.
Probably, along with you, in Cloud Cuckoo Land.

BLUE -- the shearer (copyright col wilson)

Poem for The Week July 9th

Well, the current way's not working too well.

VISION FOR AUSTRALIA

A new vision for Australia. Think outside the square.
First, think about State Governments. What if they weren’t there?
Just one central Government. Republic, if you like.
Tell all the Premiers, and their mob, to go and take a hike.

Jettison the old ways. The Westminster Traditions.
Have a benevolent dictator, making all decisions.
The States might not support this new change in directions,
But wouldn’t it be great to do away with those elections.

I can hear the howls of outrage now, but this is not derisory.
The States could serve a purpose, and that purpose is ‘advisory’.
Advising Panels could be formed, as a background guide’
To the new Supremo, to help him (or her) decide

On Australia’s future, with each and every State,
Having that warm inner glow, to seal the Nation’s fate.
You reckon that it wouldn’t work? That is sheer defeatism.
My new vision for Australia, is ‘Practical Elitism’.

Who would the Supremo be? I’ve already worked that out.
A great decision maker -- Steve Fielding, without a doubt.
Fearless, and determined, thoughtful and decisive.
He’d reunite a Country, now combative, and divisive.

Let’s see, each State would be given a special multi task,
To advise El Supremo on. That’s not too much to ask.
Tasmania is a natural, with a bit of memory jogging,
To advise, and then administer, the job of national logging.

Infrastructure, Transport, Health; down to New South Wales,
Their management in this regard, never, ever fails.
Who should have responsibility to look after the police?
Victoria and Queensland, with their special expertise.

Minerals, and all that stuff, I’d leave to WA.
They’re good at all that profit stuff, and I would have to say,
That they’re environmentally sound, and very, very caring.
Their expertise would help us all -- they’re so good at sharing.

South Australia? Let me think. They’re such a special crew,
I’m sure there must be something we could find for them to do.
Look, I know that there’ll be glitches. There needs to be some tweaking,
To find the best solution for the vision that we’re seeking.

‘Practical Elitism’ to go with ‘Vision Splendid’
Think about it for a bit. It’s what commonsense intended.
No more worries. No more cares, and if we really believe,
Our future will be rosy. We can leave it all to Steve.

BLUE -- the shearer (copyright col wilson)
9/7/10

Poem for The Week July 2nd

No prizes for guessing what the subject of this week's pome is.
POLITICAL ASSASSINATION

There’d been murmurings of challenge for the Labor leadership,
Increasing in intensity, as the polls began to slip.
The faceless men, the factions, began to get uneasy
About election chances, even colleagues feeling queasy.

The mining tax, and climate change, began to take their toll,
Labor power brokers squirmed, with Abbott on a roll.
“We can win the next election!” said Abbott to Chris Pine.
That might have sparked the scheming, and the meetings clandestine.

Imagine all the whispering, number counting, the intrigue.
Even worse, as it turned out, than Melbourne Rugby League.
On the twenty-third of June, the deadly plot was drafted,
And on the twenty-fourth of June, Kevin Rudd was shafted.

The comings and goings, the to-ings and fro-ings,
The knives in the back from the factions.
The squelching of blood from the corpse of the Rudd,
The whispers, and clandestine actions.

The sheer fascination of assassination,
The scheming. The wheeling and dealing.
The glimpses of reason, outweighed by the treason,
The hope of a subsequent healing.

The discontent stokers, shadowy brokers,
Deciding the incumbent’s fate.
What kind of reward, if he falls on his sword.
The demise of the head of the State.

Victoria’s Bill Shorten, he had a thought on,
Just what the outcome should be.
And I’ll tell you no fib, a bloke name Abib,
Wanted the PM a she, not a he.

Well, it’s over, done and dusted. Julia Gillard’s in the chair.
Tony Abbott says that nothing’s changed. Says he doesn’t care.
But the polls have bounced back Labor’s way. A new PM on trial.
Is there something slightly strained about the Abbott smile?

The plotters, executioners; what’s become of them?
Are they girding loins for a poll threatened PM?
Or are they on back burner, simmering away,
Until their service is required on some future judgment day?

Kevin must be suffering. I can feel his anguish,
Sitting on the back bench, where he’ll have to languish
Until the next election, whenever that may be,
Decided by the new PM. Australia’s first. A ‘she’.

BLUE -- the shearer (copyright col wilson)

Poem for The Week June 25th

What a week, but Julia does not feature this week. I had already decided what the pome for the weak should be. I am quite incensed at the ranking of mental health, and because of the many discussions, excuses, I thought it was time that Mental Elf got another run.
This time I included a preamble which I hope has been widely broadcast.
Preamble:

The Poem, ‘Mental Elf’ was written in 1992 in response to a request from Dr John Hoskin, close personal friend, and Psychiatrist at Bloomfield Psychiatric Hospital in Orange, to promote Mental Health Week in that year.
He liked the poem, and sent it to the late Andrew Olle, who interviewed me about the poem, and played it on his ABC Breakfast program. The response was quite staggering.
I feel very strongly about Mental Health apparently being the poor relation in the Health system, particularly as regards funding.

MENTAL ELF
When things are at their blackest, and nothing's going right,
And the goblins come to haunt you in the wee hours of the night.
When someone who is dear to you has suffered some dire fate,
Maybe even passed away. That's when you need a mate.
When you've suffered setback, in your home life or career,
And you've thought of seeking solace in the whisky, or the beer.

When your job's been made redundant, and there's no end to your strife,
And there's nothing left to live for. No purpose in your life.
That's the time you need one, but a mate's not always there,
When you're at your lowest ebb, and needing tender care.
You have no faith in anyone, least of all yourself --
BUT there is someone to help you. His name is Mental Elf.

He's a funny little fellow, and never far away,
Just waiting for a chance to help to brighten up your day.
I've met this little Mental Elf, time and time again,
And he's taken up his domicile in portion of my brain.

He's my tactical adviser on how to handle strife,
And I'll admit quite freely: He's important in my life.
When something's praying on my mind, I'm tending to despair,
He comes up with some good advice that helps to clear the air.
My Mental Elf insists that: "It is dangerous to brood,
Not only is it dangerous, but people think you're rude."

He says you should: "Go talk to friends and seek a new perspective
On matters that concern you. Don't be so reflective."
He counsels: "You should be aware. When under heavy stress,
You're likely to neglect yourself, and land in deeper mess.
Food and rest and exercise are vital things you should
Get to get quick better." (His English ain't that good).

"And don't feel so damn guilty, for feeling like you do.
Anger, grief, and jealousy. They're really nothing new.
Use a bit of commonsense. Take some time to think,
You might not need your Valium, and recourse to strong drink."
My Mental Elf advises me that I am not unique.
Everybody has a Mental Elf with whom to speak.

"No one on this earth today, is free from grief and care,
Now or in the future," says my Mental Elf. "So there."
He says: “Don’t be a hermit. Seek friends with whom to talk.
Eat healthy food. Get some sleep. Go and take a walk.
Find out about some good techniques to help you to relax.
Seek help when you need it, like you do with income tax.”

He's a twinkling little fellow, with a great outlook on life,
And he says a sense of humour is an antidote to strife.
He's right. When I look back on life, and things were pretty sad,
A bit of timely humour made them not so bad.

So, don't let things get desperate. Recognise the signs,
That life's becoming murky. Read between the lines,
And get your life in order. Don't leave it 'til too late,
And say "G'Day" to Mental Elf. Remember. He's your mate.

BLUE - the shearer (copyright col wilson)

Poem for week June 18th.

It's hard to emulate the Bard,
To use his rhymes for modern times,
But here's a sample of his example.
And if it causes too much pain, I promise not to try again.

MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING

In a ‘Hamlet’ named Canberra, (not part of New South Wales)
A tragedy, or comedy, let’s call it ‘Winter’s Tales’
Is being put together. Rehearsals soon to start.
And it’s yet to be decided, who will play the leading part.

Kevin Rudd, incumbent star, is favoured for the role,
But Tony Abbott, ruthless foe, is reaching for that goal.
Between the Rudd and Abbott houses, much blood is soon to flow,
And in the wings, a Julia lurks, who’d like to have a go.

What the play’s about, is yet to find a firm direction,
But I think I’d tend to hazard, that a Federal Election
Could well be the central theme, along with romance, and some terrors,
Or it could well end up, as a ‘Comedy of Errors’.

Modern times would be portrayed. The super profits tax,
Would need to be included to mirror current facts.
The mining giants, be written in. their role would be a biggy,
And I suspect, when casting, there would be a part for ‘Twiggy’.

One scene I’d like to see portrayed, is ‘The Taming of the Shrew’
But as to who would fill that role, I wouldn’t have a clue.
And to forecast who would get it, I would not be game,
But in the current climate, she’d achieve a lasting fame.

Not all would be smooth sailing, for there, behind the scenes,
Lurks the sinister figure of Bob Brown, of the Greens.
He’s been there right from the start, prepared to grab the light.
He shows no sign of fading, this is his ‘Twelfth Night’.

Wayne Swan would have to get a part. It looks like he is stuck
With the role of Shylock, when he’d much rather Puck.
There should be a teenage heroine, preferably with a yacht.
They asked young Jessica Watkins, but she said she’d rather not.

Should there be a scene somewhere, a subplot sort of thing,
With Tony Abbott in his bed, where he begins to sing,
Waking from a nightmare, with a hideous piercing scream,
“Won’t someone deliver me from this ‘Midsummer Night’s Dream”?

will the press unleash a ‘Tempest’, regardless of the cost?
Will the headline be, Tony Abbott ‘Loves that Labor Lost’?
Or will the hero, Kevin Rudd, announce, at the final bell,
That, in his opinion, ‘All’s Well that ends Well’?

Shakespeare is alive and well. Some liberties were taken
In this new scenario. Some will be quite shaken
At my attempts to find a mark, take aim, and try to strike it.
But you can take my efforts, and mark it ‘As you like it’.
The plot could do with editing. Some polishing, some buffing,
But Canberra in the end, is ‘Much ado about Nuffing’.

BLUE -- the shearer (copyright col wilson) 18/6/10

Pome for weak June 11th.

As they say, good news doesn't sell

HEADLINES

Let’s talk about Australia. What really makes a Nation.
Opinion polls? The media fuelling indignation?
I do have a theory and what I’d like to say,
Is, I think it’s down to headlines, that we read every day.

What makes a real good headline? What grabs you by the throat?
What makes you want to read some more? What headline gets your goat?
I must admit, I’m jaded by the way headlines report.
It’s pro and anti Government, bankers, miners, sport.

Israel Falau has done a renege. He’s joined AFL, and deserted the league.
Jared Haynes is free to play. If you’re in New South Wales, Hooray! Hooray!
Who cares what club they’re going to join? Some football player sprained his groin.
And they are the headlines up to date. Do these headlines decide our fate?

What are some headlines that you’d like to see?
Just bear with me, and I’ll give you some, free.
‘HONEST POLITICIAN FOUND IN NEW SOUTH WALES’.
Or ‘TRUTH SERUM TO BE GIVEN TO BANKERS’ that should tip the scales.

‘STATES AGREE ON WATER POLICY’. That deserves a mention
‘NEW SOUTH WALES REPEAL BAILS ACT. DIVERTS YOUTH FROM DETENTION’.
‘AUSTRALIA WELCOMES BOAT PEOPLE. SAYS ‘G’DAY’ TO REFUGEES’
‘PHILLIP RUDDOCK SAYS “HEAR, HEAR”. TONY ABBOTT AGREES’.

‘NEW SOUTH WALES WINS STATE OF ORIGIN’ Nah! I think you’d agree,
That there should be a grain of truth. A whiff of reality.
‘GOVERNMENT AND MINERS AGREE ON REFORM’ you’d like to read that one.
‘RUDD REVIVES THE EST’. wouldn’t that be fun?

‘PRIVATE SCHOOLS SAY NO MORE FUNDING. WE ARE RICH ENOUGH’.
‘TASMANIA OUTLAWS LOGGING’ That’s exciting stuff.
‘PRESS BAN ON PRIVATE SCANDALS’. ‘ONLY PUBLISH TRUTH’
‘KEVIN RUDD KEEPS PROMISE’. Wow! Corblimey! Struth!

‘PEACE DECLARED IN MIDDLE EAST’ I’d like that to be true.
‘BANKS ABOLISH CHARGES ON BALANCES OVERDUE’
‘STATE PARLIAMENTS AGREE ON SCHOOL AND HEALTH REFORM’
and ‘FACTIONS ARE ABOLISHED’ and ‘SO IS THE MELBOURNE STORM’.

Yes, I know. It’s pie in the sky. Castles in the air,
But wouldn’t it be lovely if those headlines were there.
A small glimpse of Utopia, don’t let it go to your head --
They might be lovely headlines, BUT they’re never going to be read.

BLUE -- the shearer (copyright col wilson)

Poem For week June 4th

I was going to sing the first verse of this pome, but in deference to the listeners' auditory sensibilities, I decided not to.
This is an exercise in macro cynicism. Maybe macro is not the right word. I don't know to what heights cynicism can go yet.

HOLE IN THE GROUND

Nothing could be finer than to be a mineral miner, in Australia,
But what a market killer, is a deep sea oil driller with a failure.
If I had to choose between the two, then I'd be bound
To reap enormous profits from a big hole in the ground.
Nothing could be finer than to be a mineral miner, in Australia.

Yes, I'd choose to be a miner of uranium, or coal,
Copper, zinc, or bauxite, silver, tin, or gold.
Investors would be rushing me, begging for a slice
Of all my mining profits, and they'd pay me any price.

Dig a hole. Make billions. They're the simple facts,
Then along comes bloody Kevin, with his super profits tax.
He reckons we should share the wealth. Create a fiscal flap.
Share our super profits? What a load of crap.

As mining magnates, we have rights. Let me set them out.
To start with, we are very rich. THAT gives us some clout.
WE generate employment. WE influence the press.
WE reckon WE own Governments. Without us, they're a mess.

We might poison a few rivers, pollute some national parks,
Leave some gaping chasms, to reach our profit marks.
Threaten water catchments, deface some tourist spot.
THAT'S just collateral damage. Are we worried? Not a lot.

Well, not about pollution, and all that kind of thing.
But Kevin and his tax idea, that could start to sting.
Just who does he think he is? Threatening our gain.
He's just released a swarm of bees. He's going to feel some pain.

I think the public's on our side. We'll run a load of ads,
Refuting Kevin and his mob. His Governmental fads.
What? He's starting to retaliate? Running ads as well?
I don't think that's very fair. He can go to hell.

He’s aspersing mining magnates. We're getting a raw deal.
Oil drilling's stinks as well. Imagine how THEY feel.
All because of some bad press, even as we speak.
What a lot of fuss about some minor oil leak.

For our drilling oil mates, we feel REAL sympathy,
With all those oil profits now drifting in the sea.
Just imagine all that angst amongst the oil supporters,
Pouring all that precious oil, into un-troubled waters.

Well, we shall have to wait and see, who wins this epic battle.
We've got the money, and the clout. It's possible that that'll
Scuttle Kevin and his tax AND his Labor voters. .
Let him blather all he likes, WE’RE concerned with profit quotas.

BLUE - the shearer (copyright col wilson)