George “Soapy The Ankle” Brandis used to be the sleazy, slimy Attorney General under the Abbott-Turnbull “government” in the twenty-teens.  This was the least he could reasonably expect.

2017

Can I, please,
Hit George Brandis in the knees
With a cricket bat? Oh do
Say it isn’t true
That dour Australian law
Would frown upon such actions, for
He makes me want to make him cry,
Or on the tarmac wincing sadly lie,
In just the same exact specific way
He lies himself most every single day —
Except, you know, by “lie” I meant
Himself, all sprawling, both legs bent
In agony and begging to be told
Why one so grey and old
And well-respected might
Experience such angry, vehement spite
From someone (me, to be specific) who
Is sick and tired completely through
Of everything he does.
But no. I know. The fuzz
Would likely question me
And, since they’re bound and vowed to be
Impartial keepers of the nation’s laws,
Would barely pause
To countenance my argument that I
Was doing something filled with high
-Est virtue when, with cheerful ease,
I hit George Brandis in the knees,
And with me off to chokey they would trot.
So I shall not.

(But once my trial is done and I’m banged up,
With nothing to my name but mattress, plate and cup,
Please think of me in kindness, just switch off your TV sets
And go and, in my honour, groin-punch Senator Abetz.)