(Trying my hand at prophesy)
She struck Bishop Reef and is lost.
Her crew, to the cruel sea were tossed.
It’s rumoured her skipper
Washed up like a kipper;
Pride comes at a terrible cost.
Old Tony (The Barnacle) Abbott,
He clings to the hull out of habit.
If he had some bottle
He’d grab that damned throttle
And move it from tortoise to rabbit.
But barnacled bottoms impede,
By drag, both direction and speed.
A ship tends to slow
When it’s rough down below;
It’s smoothness that boat bottoms need.
So speed, it would further improve
Were they to old Tony remove.
Some times to up knots
You must jettison clots.
Most people I think would approve.
Old Gough, the pale pink politician,
Between drinks had a long intermission.
Although not long in power
Now it’s his finest hour;
It seems death has improved his condition.
For old Gough way back then was disgraced,
And his minions the masters of waste.
Then his stupid decrees
Brought the place to its knees;
Past mistakes by old reds are erased.