POEM: The Odours

This poem is an *IA Writing Competition (creative work category) entry.

The Odours

If I could be a pollies c*ck-up,
Oh, which one would I choose?
To bring disgrace upon my party,
And wind up front page news.

I'd like to think I'm not Barnaby,
Writhing nonsense from a garden bed.
I’d much prefer to be Lidia outside the strip club,
Yelling what “She Said.”

I wouldn't like to be Tim Smith,
Or the fence he smashed head-on.
And then refused to pay to fix,
‘Cause he ain’t did nuffing wrong!

Lest we forget the putrid chair sniffer,
That man from waaaayyyyyy out West.
Troy Buswell indeed conceding,
His judgement was not the best.

I may fancy being Belinda Neal,
At least her comment of “offence”
When she slurred the demon baby,
Contending truth as absolute defence?!

I wouldn't like to be the Mad Monk's onion,
Those dick togs were bad enough,
An Aussie surf lifesaving cap can be forgiving,
But not of something quite that rough!

I might be Will Fowles' lobby mess,
After fully running amok.
The day the holey wall caved in.
And his baggage came unstuck.

I could be the rumoured dog food,
Left on Dutton’s desk,
By colleagues in the police force,
Copper humour is the best.

And what of little Johnny...
The "children overboard" scandal alone,
But giving Pell a character reference?
That can’t help when he's called home!

I suppose I could be Gladys B
And her boyfriend morally bankrupt,
Eventually outed for intimate dealings
With that unsettling stench of corrupt.

I'd dare not be Jon Setka,
Known for a touch of strife,
Things could get quite messy,
With such a turbulent home life.

I know I wouldn't be Albo of recent times,
That snigger with the King!
Throwing his commitment to a treaty or republic,
Fair and squarely in the bin.

And what of Bishop's ‘copter ride…
From Melbourne to Geelong?
She left it just that bit too late,
To acknowledge she was wrong.

I think of all the worthy contenders,
And wonder who I’d be,
Because I know that I’m not perfect
And far from it from me.

So I suppose I better choose a deed,
And become a someone too,
But what kind of misdemeanour strife
Would I most likely get up to?

I’d like to be a branch stacker,
Like an Adem Somyurek,
But do the numbers until Victorian Labor
Had only LEFTISTS left.

And if by any smidge of chance,
I didn’t happen to get caught.
I’d become a faceless man
And sure up votes that could be bought.

Either that or go a few rounds,
With that troll-obsessed Michaelia Cash.
Only I fear she’d use her claws,
And death-defy with that terrifying gnash.

Fortunately as I’m not fit for it,
But had the foresight to actually know.
I thought I’d build a journos castle.
On the stones I get to throw.

And of all the politicians,
Albeit on the nose,
I'd just die if I were Scotty.
And could not hold a hose.

Because of all those I can think of,
He’s the worst we've ever really seen.
With those ministries of massacre,
Of the kind, left back at Maccas Engadine.

Naomi Fryers is a writer, author, storyteller and journalist from Melbourne. You can follow Naomi on X (the old Twittersphere) @Naomi_Writes_.

* Full IA Writing Competition details HERE.