There was movement in the nation, for the word had passed around
That the dolt whom all regret was led astray,
And had joined the wild right-wingers – he was worth a million pound,
So all the banks had gathered to the fray.
All the rich and pompous toadies from the networks heard the call
And mustered his supporters with their lies,
For progressive Malcolm Turnbull was the greatest myth of all,
And the voters drank the Kool-Aid every time.
The chief hypocrite, who made his pile inventing internet,
The old man and his leather jacket look;
But few would stand beside him with his deficit and debt –
Less still when he protected fiscal crooks.
And Tony of the beaches, north, just would not go away,
A worse PM the country never knew;
His wrecking, undermining, and his sniping all held sway,
And never missed his chance to turn the screw.
From NBN to ABC, our Malcolm trashed it all,
A liberal man who left the Left confused,
A touch of Timor spying – not enough to cause his fall –
His backflips, though, could never be excused.
So weak and smug and spineless – just the sort to spin a lie –
There was hubris in his long and boring spiels;
And he bore the Qanda audience whenever he stopped by,
With the Newspolls always nipping at his heels.
But still so liked, and needed, none would doubt his pow’r to stay,
Ev’n Howard said, “He’s leading in the polls
“For a long and painful ballot – gang, you’d better not replay
“The errors made when Labor sold their souls.”
So they waited, and they plotted – as support for Turnbull waned –
‘Til, at last, the people finally had enough;
And the knives, so freshly sharpened; though with nothing to be gained;
Were plunged, as though to call the public’s bluff.
“He failed us, even if he did all that we might demand,
“The gay vote never should have come to pass,
“He couldn’t even stop the Blaks from taking back Crown land,
“On climate change, he wouldn’t back coal gas.
“He gave up the banks, our closest friends, for reasons unexplained,
“Even if he tried to help them hide their crimes,
“He kept the camps, the thousands there, some dying, well contained,
“But still, he’s not the leader for these times.”
And so it goes, the leaking and the lying, from the right,
A self-destructive force like few have seen;
For power matters little to those spoiling for a fight,
And nothing gets their blood up like The Greens.
So, as Malcolm tried to swing his party to’ard a climate goal,
He must have known how Abbott would react,
To try to shift this nation’s heart from its kinship with black coal?
Cannot be done while the decks are so stacked.
Yet, he remains, Prime Millionaire, from Piper’s Point today,
Despite the countless reasons for his end.
We haven’t even looked at how he hid his cash away,
Still with Panama Papers to contend.
The sheer arrogance of this man, remaining as he did,
Should be his one and only legacy,
Incompetent, subservient – long before his numbers slid,
Enabling Hanson’s white supremacy.
And down by Sydney Harbour, where his mansion looms so large
The waterfront estate so many crave,
Where the locals count their riches, safe from any taxed surcharge,
And treat the working class like up-jumped slaves,
Amongst the yachts and sports cars, midst the mountains of cocaine,
Through leafy streets, and down the cobbled drives,
The man, the legend, from Point Piper, in spite of his short reign,
They whisper of his back and all those knives.