Wheat Cockies Lament (still going strong)

I sit on my verandah, surveying the acres,
and wonder aloud,
where are the fakirs?

To whom can I sell,
all of my wheat now?
Which markets will takethe fruit of my plough?

They say it was needed,
it wasn’t a sin.
But I sit back and wonderat their hubris and grins.

Three hundred million,
that’s a mighty big whack.
It’d keep me still farm’ntill the bank got it back.

And the 600,000 they paid to that jerk?
You know …,
they told me it was one of the perks?

Straight out of my pocket.
From the sweat of my brow.
To a white collar executive.Where’s that bastard now?

A single desk trading was the answer they said.
We’d be so competitive,
on the world’s stage we’d tread.

Well, we’re bloody well there now,
Caught! do’in the deals,
besmirching the sweat from the wheat farmer’s brow.

So you Nationals and Liberals and Barnaby Joyce,
come out of y’ bunker
and give us a voice.

Stop grin’n, duck shovin’ and run’n around,
pretending you know nothing,
Not you, Joyce, we know your sound.

Sometimes your hard up for a rhyme you cant find,
So you grab any name,
even though it’s unkind.

I don’t give a bugger, I couldn’t care less,
what you bastards are up to;
how you clear up this mess.

So get on with it now. Try show some pride
for the honest wheat farmer,
you know, the one on whose back you bastards all ride.