When next the visage of the moon
Turns coyly from the Earth to wane
In Southern lands, a mournful tune
Plays soft to endeth this campaign
Two foes, hast did declare their troth
As means to quench a powr’ful thirst
One side intendeth jobs and growth
The other, putting people first.
What trigger’d such a grand event?
A solemn vow to disagree
‘Til twice-dissolved, our parliament
Restored not the ABCC
For fortnights twain a battle fought
Continued twenty-eight days more
We sit upon the rowboat’s thwart
With battens placed for what’s in store.
What promises are made thus far?
What quarter shall our champions give
To childcare, tax, the NBN
And gearing in the negative?
As rivals gloat and bluff and boast
It matters not what happens hence
The policies that matter most
Seem nothing much of consequence
Of marriage just, nor refugees
Spake neither glori’ed bureaucrat;
More time and swathes of journalese
Apportioned to a blessed rat.