My Fellow Australians
November 19th 2007 07:32
Top of the mornin' to you,
If we ever have to hear "My Fellow Australians..." uttered again, it will be too soon. Here we are at the business end of the contest and it's with some trepidation that we approach Saturday's festivities. He's still there and while he is, nothing is well with the world. From being George W. Bush's bitch, to Australia's fool, to being Kevin Rudd's whipping boy, while he still lives and breathes, politically at least, we're ruined.
There's an Elvis Costello song, one slice of the man's fulsome canon, about the electioneering Margaret Thatcher kissing babies and what not, but the protagonist (Costello and anyone else half sane I imagine) longs for her to live a long life so that when she finally is laid to rest we have our moment of justifiable revenge - to tramp the dirt down on her freshly filled grave. Let's just imagine it was John Howard being sung of in light of Iraq.
Hit it Elvis:
Tramp The Dirt Down by Elvis Costello
I saw a newspaper picture from the political campaign
A woman was kissing a child, who was obviously in pain
She spills with compassion, as that young child's
face in her hands she grips
Can you imagine all that greed and avarice
coming down on that child's lips
Well I hope I don't die too soon
I pray the Lord my soul to save
Oh I'll be a good boy, I'm trying so hard to behave
Because there's one thing I know, I'd like to live
long enough to savour
That's when they finally put you in the ground
I'll stand on your grave and tramp the dirt down
When England was the whore of the world
Margaret was her madam
And the future looked as bright and as clear as
the black tarmacadam
Well I hope that she sleeps well at night, isn't
haunted by every tiny detail
'Cos when she held that lovely face in her hands
all she thought of was betrayal
And now the cynical ones say that it all ends the same in the long run
Try telling that to the desperate father who just squeezed the life from his
only son
And how it's only voices in your head and dreams you never dreamt
Try telling him the subtle difference between justice and contempt
Try telling me she isn't angry with this pitiful discontent
When they flaunt it in your face as you line up for punishment
And then expect you to say "Thank you" straighten up, look proud and pleased
Because you've only got the symptoms, you haven't got the whole disease
Just like a schoolboy, whose head's like a tin-can
filled up with dreams then poured down the drain
Try telling that to the boys on both sides, being blown to bits or beaten and
maimed
Who takes all the glory and none of the shame
Well I hope you live long now, I pray the Lord your soul to keep
I think I'll be going before we fold our arms and start to weep
I never thought for a moment that human life could be so cheap
'Cos when they finally put you in the ground
They'll stand there laughing and tramp the dirt down
I can not stomach another photograph of Howard kissing his grandson on the front page of the paper, why is he so clumsy and cliched? I can not stomach him throwing money at problems and selectively picking out who benefits. I can not stomach him trying to be like the average Australian by acting like the biggest sporting groupie the country has. I can not stomach this conceited, arrogant dropkick as he fiddles while Rome burns.
We still have to wait this out. Nothing can be taken for granted. Until we're all laughing and cheering as he concedes defeat, tears of joy running down our faces, we must continue to hope and pray and that's no joke. If you're the praying kind, you better get on it. One supposes that Howard and Rudd will be praying too, but one suspects that Howard prays to the Devil, so Rudd will hopefully not be in league with the Evil One.
Let's keep this one short, because come Sunday, there should be a reason for this little corner of the internet to cease operations, because Rudd will be headed to the Lodge, Garrett will be ready for battle, Maxine McKew wins Bennelong, Tony Burke takes Watson again, the Libs are decimated, a country sighs and we turn around, look each other in the eye and say: "Right Rudd, now, "DON'T F@#$ IT UP!"
Cheers
Michael.
If we ever have to hear "My Fellow Australians..." uttered again, it will be too soon. Here we are at the business end of the contest and it's with some trepidation that we approach Saturday's festivities. He's still there and while he is, nothing is well with the world. From being George W. Bush's bitch, to Australia's fool, to being Kevin Rudd's whipping boy, while he still lives and breathes, politically at least, we're ruined.
There's an Elvis Costello song, one slice of the man's fulsome canon, about the electioneering Margaret Thatcher kissing babies and what not, but the protagonist (Costello and anyone else half sane I imagine) longs for her to live a long life so that when she finally is laid to rest we have our moment of justifiable revenge - to tramp the dirt down on her freshly filled grave. Let's just imagine it was John Howard being sung of in light of Iraq.
Hit it Elvis:
Tramp The Dirt Down by Elvis Costello
I saw a newspaper picture from the political campaign
A woman was kissing a child, who was obviously in pain
She spills with compassion, as that young child's
face in her hands she grips
Can you imagine all that greed and avarice
coming down on that child's lips
Well I hope I don't die too soon
I pray the Lord my soul to save
Oh I'll be a good boy, I'm trying so hard to behave
Because there's one thing I know, I'd like to live
long enough to savour
That's when they finally put you in the ground
I'll stand on your grave and tramp the dirt down
When England was the whore of the world
Margaret was her madam
And the future looked as bright and as clear as
the black tarmacadam
Well I hope that she sleeps well at night, isn't
haunted by every tiny detail
'Cos when she held that lovely face in her hands
all she thought of was betrayal
And now the cynical ones say that it all ends the same in the long run
Try telling that to the desperate father who just squeezed the life from his
only son
And how it's only voices in your head and dreams you never dreamt
Try telling him the subtle difference between justice and contempt
Try telling me she isn't angry with this pitiful discontent
When they flaunt it in your face as you line up for punishment
And then expect you to say "Thank you" straighten up, look proud and pleased
Because you've only got the symptoms, you haven't got the whole disease
Just like a schoolboy, whose head's like a tin-can
filled up with dreams then poured down the drain
Try telling that to the boys on both sides, being blown to bits or beaten and
maimed
Who takes all the glory and none of the shame
Well I hope you live long now, I pray the Lord your soul to keep
I think I'll be going before we fold our arms and start to weep
I never thought for a moment that human life could be so cheap
'Cos when they finally put you in the ground
They'll stand there laughing and tramp the dirt down
I can not stomach another photograph of Howard kissing his grandson on the front page of the paper, why is he so clumsy and cliched? I can not stomach him throwing money at problems and selectively picking out who benefits. I can not stomach him trying to be like the average Australian by acting like the biggest sporting groupie the country has. I can not stomach this conceited, arrogant dropkick as he fiddles while Rome burns.
We still have to wait this out. Nothing can be taken for granted. Until we're all laughing and cheering as he concedes defeat, tears of joy running down our faces, we must continue to hope and pray and that's no joke. If you're the praying kind, you better get on it. One supposes that Howard and Rudd will be praying too, but one suspects that Howard prays to the Devil, so Rudd will hopefully not be in league with the Evil One.
Let's keep this one short, because come Sunday, there should be a reason for this little corner of the internet to cease operations, because Rudd will be headed to the Lodge, Garrett will be ready for battle, Maxine McKew wins Bennelong, Tony Burke takes Watson again, the Libs are decimated, a country sighs and we turn around, look each other in the eye and say: "Right Rudd, now, "DON'T F@#$ IT UP!"
Cheers
Michael.
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