Poem: Libs in the Cave


The party of the troglodytes
had lost its man of steel,
and craved another overlord
to bring them all to heel.
The smirking trog turned down the job.
Folks knew he was a wanker.
The doctor couldn’t pull it off,
so then they tried the banker.

Meanwhile the planet’s heating up —
that’s not just trog hot air.
It’s carbon gases spewing out
from coal plants everywhere.
They must be shut before seas rise
and low land disappears.
But trogs in caves care only how
to save their own careers.

The banker trog had stepped outside
and sniffed the warming haze,
then urged the party faithful
to give up their troggy ways.
The old guard trogs were horrified
and raised a dreadful stink:
“Just toe the line you faithless rat!
What will big business think?”

Meanwhile the faker party,
headed by a kruddy chap,
proposed a carbon trading scheme
with such a generous cap
and complimentary permits for
the bigger end of town,
who’d rack up windfall profits just
by bringing carbon down.

The trogs were in a tizzy since
the scheme was not so bad.
It opened up new markets
for their business mates to grab.
But troglodytes don’t understand
the planet’s getting hot.
Their mantra says that climate change
is just a commie plot.

The banker’s mate said “Sign the scheme
and get it off our plate!
We’ve more important matters
like inciting fear and hate.
Just keep the punters focused on
those scapegoat refugees!
Those greenies must be neutered or
they’ll spread like some disease.”

Then deep within the darkened cave
they heard the mad monk roar:
“Come follow me, as I’m the redneck
you’ve been pining for!”
At last the trogs were happy,
trotting after monk’s old guard.
For facing up to climate change
was all a bit too hard.