They may be duds or they may be drones,
Or legislators heaven-sent;
But the A.L.P. for all atones
When it gets them into Parliament.
Tho' they talk sheer drivel once they're there,
Our job is done. Why should we care?
They may be mild or they may be reds,
Or 'has-beens' who have missed the bus.
But the simple job of counting heads
Is all that matters much to us.
And the job we do with wondrous ease
Is the mas production of M.P's.
So, why blame us in peevish gloom,
And charge us with this grievous sin?
They may involve the land in doom;
But our job's done; we've got 'em in.
As from the pod come peas all green
We turn 'em out with our machine.
They may be robots, built with care,
Or silly sheep, or crazy goats;
But, once they're tied and branded there,
They art no longer men, but votes.
Thus, we our glorious aim achieve,
And triumph, tho' the nation grieve.