planes, chains, and automotons

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Australia’s the land where I was born,
Dredged sand from the soil
and toiled bricks ‘long the shore,
Walled up royal churches, and red carpet courthouses,
So we could Christen convicts’ unholy spawn,
Through the bush we’d cut roads
so as to not tear our trousers
And loving our forefathers all the same,
Yawning through apocalypse to another dawn.

Sydney is the town where I was raised,
With the beach where the white ants
still jonesing for hate so badly behaved,
And hooded mothers of the other brothers
Pulled glass from the skin of their wincing unshaved,
And now we’re building paper fences
Because the moat is not enough?
Because Cronulla, like our laws,
Just words, history, and a racist bluff.

See, Canberra is where I am now,
Polarizing and rotten, its manners forgotten,
And ravaged by suited sacred cows
Who on the hill pontificate,
Verbally gyrating with lies
and swatting at the little flies,
While down below there are shivering ghost people,
Left to snuff out in the shadows,
whiteys’ apartment blocks, consulates, and towering steeples.

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