An Improvement To The Nation by James Cayce is a sharp political satire that imagines Australia’s elected class swept into an uncomfortable bushland reckoning.
Written with another nod to Banjo Paterson, the poem sends its cast from Canberra’s comforts into scrub, wire and ridicule before the dream fades back in Upper Kowpatt.
An Improvement To The Nation
By James Cayce
(With apologies yet again to Banjo Paterson)
An ‘improvement’ to the nation occurred one night I found
When those dolts that we elect were whisked away
On some whirl of wild forces that in dreams often abound
That can linger in the most amusing way.
All those bloated Comcar riders from locations near and far
Were clustered in some compound out of sight
And to witness them abiding without their Members’ Bar
T’was a vision that filled me with delight.
There was Morrison who showed his style when Covid had turned up
And in that regard he clearly didn’t know
His anus from his elbow but sold us all a pup
And told us where we could and couldn’t go.
So too were the Premiers, who didn’t understand
And none had even bothered to explain
Why they locked us up so long and stepping out was banned
Why they gave us grief and drove us all insane
The Members all were there, the male ones at least
In birthday suits with trimmings undersized
With Malcolm next to Tony where all conversation ceased
And no one there was in the least surprised
And Barnaby among them, like a fart that wouldn’t die
There was bluster in everything he said
And into every sentence some bullshit he’d apply
But all his emanated from his head.
And one, not bright but seedy, chanting ‘Wind and Sun’s the way’
Was that Bowen bloke with nothing much to do
He was muttering ‘Net Zero’ in a proud and boastful way
Referring I presumed, to his IQ.
He was looking sad and wistful like a bloke without a friend
” I think he’s lost his marbles”, someone said
“He’ll be raising power prices till we’ve nothing left to spend
And we can’t afford to buy a loaf of bread”.
He hails from the West I heard, not far from Albo’s side
That bloke who’s full of arrogance and bluff
But he got himself elected though many times he’s lied
So his feigned sincerity is good enough
He’s always at some gathering many miles from home
In swanky digs that none of us have seen
He has all the stately presence of a concrete garden gnome
And all the ‘savoir faire’ of Mr Bean
He thinks himself a statesman by spending time with Trump
Attempting to look relevant somehow
Which sets the world debating as to who’s the greater chump
A question undecided, even now.
And I fancy you could see them as they lay in bed at night
When the spotlight and the feigned affection chills
Having eyed each other off in a realistic light
They’d consider one other to be dills
And Pauline too was there like a wasp upon the wing
Looking quite irate and somewhat out of place
She was giving them a dressing down that set their ears to ring
And calling each a drongo to his face
She halted for a moment, ceased her verbal lash
Then continued on as only she can do
And they cringed behind the bushes or made a sudden dash
Till all had swiftly disappeared from view.
A deathly silence followed as the men came filing back
Looking carefully around in utter dread
But their nemesis was gone and had sauntered down a track
With peals of laughter ringing overhead
Then the women stumbled in as if they’d lost their way
And their sense of disbelief they couldn’t hide
When they heard the Speaker say the Order of the Day;
‘No Question Time today will be applied’.
Then they reached a kind of summit as the sun was rising full
Lighting ghostly figures looking close to death
The twigs of scrub were itching like a coat of coarsest wool
And all complained till each was out of breath.
Then the Speaker gave a nod and let Albo have his head
Who then swung his noggin round and acting queer
Took off through the bushes and as he ran he said
“This Celebrity is getting out of here!”
He sent the scrub a ‘flyin’ yet somehow kept his feet
Catching insects in his teeth with every stride
Over fallen logs and ditches, never missing once, a beat
And none could stop their laughter – and none tried.
They found him some time later sprawled out upon the ground
Near some nettle that he’d raced through as he went
But he failed to clear the barbs of a wire fence he’d found
And the bulk of his ‘majority’ was spent.
Of all those in that gathering, some were laughing still
While others more concerned were standing mute
He was scratching rather fiercely, blaspheming loud and shrill
Cursing one and all – and in his birthday suit.
He faded for a moment as the sun began to set
And many added prayers to their appeals
But suddenly Lazarus-like, he rose and leads us yet
As reality too clearly still reveals.
And he’d claim he does it well even though he’s never home
And he’s never in a rush to hurry back
But he thinks he can’t be beaten so once again he’ll roam
Till we see him somewhere further down the track
And just like Mal and Tony or any of that lot
The history that they make becomes a blur
Their ‘improvements’ to the nation are very often not
And only leave us worse off than we were.
But here in Upper Kowpatt where the happy cattle graze
And the world of politicians passes by
Where the air is clear as crystal except on windy days
When the sewerage plant could make a statue cry
The affairs of those in power hold precious little sway
Their worthless promises are cast aside
But improvement to the nation in a dream had come my way
And as all good dreams will do, too quickly died.
Keeping The Verse Alive
An Improvement To The Nation is shared with permission from James Cayce through Keeping The Verse Alive, Country Campfire’s bush poetry preservation project.
By preserving poems like this, we’re helping ensure the stories, humour and characters of country Australia continue to be enjoyed for generations to come.
James Cayce
Bush Poet • Humourist • Storyteller • Parody Writer
James Cayce is the pen name of Zbigniew “Zig” Ignaszak, a bush poet and storyteller whose work blends humour, parody, memory, gratitude and Australian country verse.
Poems, recitals, photographs, stories and original works remain the property of their original creator and are shared by Country Campfire with permission.
