With apologies to Banjo Paterson.
There was movement through the nation, for the word had passed around
That the voters there had finally had their say,
And had voted independent – who were mostly Canberra bound –
The Libs thought hard about where blame might lay.
All the so-called “hard right” Liberals blamed the so-called Doctors’ wives,
As they poured through numbers on election night,
For the pollies love the counting – it consumes most of their lives,
The pundits thought the blame lay on the Right.
There was Frydenberg who made his move when Petro tossed it in,
Made Kooyong his then settled in for life,
And imagined that the Lodge would be a prize that he could win,
If he could walk the middle road without much strife.
Tim Wilson hailed from Goldstein and he’d long had much to say,
He hated super, anti-bikie laws and tax,
Look back some years – director of the bloody IPA?!
“A moderate” is a tag that Wilson lacks.
And one was there – a stripling – on the Labor side of things,
Who’d lost some weight and smartened up his image,
‘Cause it’s never really over ‘til the fat, old lady sings –
He was really looking forward to the scrimmage.
Some early slips took bark off and the Libs went for the kill,
But Albanese managed to fight back,
The polls were trending nicely but there yet remained a hill –
The Murdoch rags kept sending up the flak.
So Rupert put his bets on and he doubled down of course,
Scared editors around the country bowed,
And after dark the Sky team poured their own vile type of sauce,
On the Commie, socialistic sort of crowd.
The Indies knew the relevance of Murdoch’s sort of press,
Had nothing like the clout of other days,
So they tweeted and they door knocked on each eligible address –
Hoped to prove that grass roots politicking pays.
The counting it had started and the Libs weren’t looking good
And recriminations came throughout the night,
‘Cause each and every seat that had an Indie who had stood,
Showed the Coalition’s sad and sorry plight.
Even Ant Green wouldn’t call it – “It’s a mess” – he might have said,
As he slowly gave the nod to Albanese,
And the benches in the parliament kept turning shades of red
While the Teals took seats in ways that looked quite easy.
And down at Tory central where the monied people live,
Instead of caviar they dined on mutton,
And they counted numbers carefully, and knew they had to give
The opposition leader’s gig to Dutton.
And he’ll wheel ‘em - oh he’ll wheel ‘em – oh he’ll wheel ‘em to the right,
Where half the Libs don’t really want to go,
They’ll spend terms in opposition if they give up on that fight,
And they’ll learn you reap the seeds that you might sow.
There was movement through the nation, for the word had passed around
That the voters there had finally had their say,
And had voted independent – who were mostly Canberra bound –
The Libs thought hard about where blame might lay.
All the so-called “hard right” Liberals blamed the so-called Doctors’ wives,
As they poured through numbers on election night,
For the pollies love the counting – it consumes most of their lives,
The pundits thought the blame lay on the Right.
There was Frydenberg who made his move when Petro tossed it in,
Made Kooyong his then settled in for life,
And imagined that the Lodge would be a prize that he could win,
If he could walk the middle road without much strife.
Tim Wilson hailed from Goldstein and he’d long had much to say,
He hated super, anti-bikie laws and tax,
Look back some years – director of the bloody IPA?!
“A moderate” is a tag that Wilson lacks.
And one was there – a stripling – on the Labor side of things,
Who’d lost some weight and smartened up his image,
‘Cause it’s never really over ‘til the fat, old lady sings –
He was really looking forward to the scrimmage.
Some early slips took bark off and the Libs went for the kill,
But Albanese managed to fight back,
The polls were trending nicely but there yet remained a hill –
The Murdoch rags kept sending up the flak.
So Rupert put his bets on and he doubled down of course,
Scared editors around the country bowed,
And after dark the Sky team poured their own vile type of sauce,
On the Commie, socialistic sort of crowd.
The Indies knew the relevance of Murdoch’s sort of press,
Had nothing like the clout of other days,
So they tweeted and they door knocked on each eligible address –
Hoped to prove that grass roots politicking pays.
The counting it had started and the Libs weren’t looking good
And recriminations came throughout the night,
‘Cause each and every seat that had an Indie who had stood,
Showed the Coalition’s sad and sorry plight.
Even Ant Green wouldn’t call it – “It’s a mess” – he might have said,
As he slowly gave the nod to Albanese,
And the benches in the parliament kept turning shades of red
While the Teals took seats in ways that looked quite easy.
And down at Tory central where the monied people live,
Instead of caviar they dined on mutton,
And they counted numbers carefully, and knew they had to give
The opposition leader’s gig to Dutton.
And he’ll wheel ‘em - oh he’ll wheel ‘em – oh he’ll wheel ‘em to the right,
Where half the Libs don’t really want to go,
They’ll spend terms in opposition if they give up on that fight,
And they’ll learn you reap the seeds that you might sow.
