A poem of grief…

Labor, you losers, you’re losing your lovers.

You’re losing the labourers of Labor-history fame.

You’re losing the respect of the principled loyalists

and you’re losing every election in every game.

 

Your branch-stacking members are making a bonfire

stacking the branches to get air in the flames.

Your gas-guzzling cronies are adding some liquid

to burn up the planet along with your names.

 

Oh Labor your lovers feel betrayed and embattled

because you’re so close with that Scomo brigade.

You all argue with them, like old married couples

but the bond is as clear as gassy lemonade.

 

Can’t you see that you’ve picked the wrong friendship?

Can’t you see that it’s our home planet they’ll sell?

It’s money they’re after, not love, you big losers.

Read the fine print, please. Else we all go to hell!

 

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