The denizens of the state
Lick their fingers
Roast off the coast
Of Christmas Island.
The crass demotics of the lucky country
Decide who’ll be thrown overboard
Turfed off the wheel to Woomera
where worms are sandgrilled to rusted nails.
After wandering for years in the parched gland
Of the Indian Ocean, the promised land:
A privatised Hell.
He ratiocinates racism
For the bytes of Ornery Strayans,
Burning the tune of Pope Urban II:
Incinerate the other for political gruel.
But the newies still contribute to the nation,
Their two cents the dignity of indignation:
A child’s lips fenced with red tape,
Responsible border protection.