Poem: Eggs

My secret heart has always begged
To see Scott Morrison soundly egged
And now it’s happened, but alas,
It’s crude and naughty (second-class).
Like Shorten, I hawed and hemmed,
Yes, it’s something to be condemned.

I think I’d rather be more pleased
If the man were rudely seized,
And hauled off to Manus Isle
And treated in some greater style.
I’d imagine a sight more grand --
A hundred refugees hand in hand
Holding a dozen eggs or more,
And the PM, sorry and sore,
Led in, clothed in smelly chains,
Mocked and jeered as on him rains
A cloud of eggs and random filth,
Ordure, insults, and other spilth,
With prizes for the better throws:
Justice half done, I would suppose.