Queen Cheryl's Song

Queen Cheryl's Song

By Peter Hicks
and Geoff Francis

Seems the dummy-spitting season in the ALP starts around January each year — and ends in December. Reithy's best mate has gone and done it again. We wish her every success in her new post, but seriously doubt that it will pose a sufficient challenge to satisfy her commendable ambitions.

To Kalgoorlie, Longreach, Bendigo,
And to dozens of more poxy places,
Where the TV news crews never go.
I'm sick of their sad little airports,
I'm sick of their sad little planes,
Where they don't have a first-class compartment,
And the people are terribly strange.

When they asked me if I would join Labor,
They never said life would be hard.
They promised me a seat in the cabinet,
And a chauffeur to drive my own car.

I'm sick of those sad little motels.
Where you can't get a room with a spa.
Where the service is so medieval,
And there's never French wine in the bar.
I'm sick of meeting with cockies.
Their wives and their families as well.
I'm sick of them endlessly whingeing,
But I'm sick most of all of their smell.

When they asked me if I would join Labor,
They never said life would be sad.
They promised me a seat in the cabinet,
But instead I've become a nomad.

So I said to that beastly pig Beazley,
"You'll have to do better than that.
"If I can't have an office like Martin,
I'm walking away with my bat."
So now I've been given employment,
And Ferguson's out of my way.
But if this fails to give me enjoyment,
Be sure I'll have much more to say.

For when they asked me if I would join Labor,
They never said times would be lean.
The only reason they want a republic,
Is to stop me from becoming queen.

From GLW issue 383