The Budget Debate – 2015 edition

The country was in a bloody terrible state, when Parliament rose for a budget debate.
It was quite a few moments before Hockey spoke and said “Sex will cost ten bucks a poke”

Whether you’re short, long, skinny or thick, tax will be paid for the use of your prick.
Albo interjected “Now Joe, look here, will the tax still be apply to the lads who are queer?”

Dale Smith arose looking quite glum: “Will I be exempt because I prefer bum?”
Hockey replied, and sounded quite airy: “You’ll fucking pay double, you dirty old fairy”

Up got Clive Palmer to tremendous applause, he grabbed Jacquie Lambie, and whipped off her drawers
He lifted his gut and stuffed her at will, then shouted: “Hey Hockey, put that on your bill!”

Bernardi then shouted “I think I’ll resign. I haven’t had sex for a very long time.
I dream every night of a juicy sheep’s crutch, but ten bucks a poke is too fucking much”

The debate carried on, and oh what a night, many were fucking anything in sight
The whole house was rooting, the speaker was too, and in the excitement, the bill got through

So now in the bedrooms of Australia each night, there’s many a cunt that’s closed good and tight
They’re taxing our booze and taxing our smokes, and now the fucking bastards are taxing our pokes.

If ten bucks a time is the price we must pay, it’s now with ourselves that we must play,
So to quench our frustration, we must have a wank, and for the state of our country, we have Hockey to thank.

The Bastard from the Bush – Banjo Patterson

As night was slowly falling over city town and bush,
From a slum in Bludgers’ alley slumped the Captain of the Push.
His whistle loud and piercing roused the echoes of The Rocks,
And a dozen ghouls came slouching round the corners of the blocks.

The Captain jerked a finger at a stranger on the curb,
Whom he qualified politely with an adjective and a verb.

“Here’s a bloke in from the bush
Fuck me blind, he wants to join us and be a member of the push”

The stranger took a look at the members of the Push and said:

“Well fuck me dead, I’m Foreskin Fred, The Bastard from the Bush.
I’ve been in every two up school from Dubbo to the ‘loo.
I’ve swung an axe, I’ve fucked some blacks, what more could a Bastard do?”

“Are you game to smash a window?” asked the Captain of the Push.

“I’ll knock the fuckin house down” said the Bastard from the Bush.

“Would you knock a man and rob him?” asked the Captain of the Push.

“I’d knock him down and fuck him” said the Bastard from the Bush.

“Would you bash a fuckin copper if you caught the cunt alone?
Would you stoush or swell a chinky, slit his garret with a stone?
Would ya have a whore to keep ya, would ya swear off work for good?”

Said The Bastard with a smile “My fukin oath I would!”

“Would you care to have a cigarette?” asked the Captain of the Push.

“I’ll take the fuckin packet” said the Bastard from the Bush.

“Would you take a babies candy?” asked the Captain of the Push.

“I’d take a babies maiden” said The Bastard from the Bush.

So the Push-ite’s all took council, saying “Fuck me but he’s game, we’ll make him our star basher, he’ll live up to his fuckin name.”

So they took him to their hideout, that Bastard from the Bush, and granted him all the privileges appertaining to the push.

But soon they found his ways were more than they could stand, and finally their leader addressed his little band:

“Now listen here you cunts, we’ve caught a fuckin tarter. At every kind of bludging, this bastard is a starter. At poker and at two up he shook our bloody rolls, he swiped our fuckin’ rum and he’s fucked our fuckin molls.”

So down in BLudgers’ alley, all the members of the Push laid a dark and dirty ambush for that Bastard from the Bush.

Against the wall of Riley’s pub, the Bastard made a stand, an ugly grin upon his face, a bike chain in his hand.

They fell upon him in a bunch, and one by one they fell, with crunch of bones, unearthly groans, and awful fucking smells.

Their torn and tattered leader, spitting teeth and gouts of blood, held an ear all torn and bleeding in a hand ingrained with mud.

“You low polluted bastard,” snarled the Captain of the Push,

“Get back to where your type belong, that’s somewhere in the bush.

May torrents of misfortune soon tumble down on you,
May some lousy harlot dose you, till your balls turn fucking blue.

May the pangs of windy spasms through your bowels dart,
May you shit your fucking trousers every time you try and fart.

May you take a swig of gins piss, mistaking it for beer.
May the next Push you impose on, toss you out on your fucking ear!

May itching piles torment you, may puss grow out your feet,
May crabs as big as spiders attack your balls a treat.

And when your down and outed, a dismal fucking wreck
May you slip back through your arsehole and break your fucking neck.”

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