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๐€ ๐๐š๐œ๐ค ๐จ๐Ÿ ๐๐ž๐ฌ๐ค๐ฒ ๐๐จ๐ž๐ญ๐ฌ

If Labor and the Greens happen to win,
What happens to the poets of the right?
Will Bill just take our punches on the chin?
More likely, we will be removed from sight.
To some place where our works wonโ€™t see the light โ€”
A gulag in the gum trees way out west,
Where hot sun sears, flies swarm, and king browns bite.
Just tucked away, away from all the rest,
Out where the dingos howl and eagles nest.
Weโ€™ll be transported, like in days of old.
Theyโ€™ll tell the people it is for the best,
For we write evil words. (Or so theyโ€™re told.)
Theyโ€™ll need to transport every one of us;
I estimate theyโ€™ll need a microbus.

โ€” D.N. Oโ€™Brien.