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MY AUSTRALIA COUNTRY

A Poem by Boris Mihailovic, aged 57-and-a-half, with sincere apologies to Dorothea Mackellar

I love this fuckwit country,
This land of Catholic pain.
Of cops with dark agendas,
Who bring us all to shame.
I love her witless bogans,
Who thrive upon the dole,
But of her pollies and her shock-jocks,
I’ll never be a fan.

The trash of morning telly,
With empty made-up whores,
The non-men who attend them;
Blokes who never settle scores.
The endless lines of traffic,
Bear down upon my soul.
Where once were shining cities,
Now stand great lines of proles.

We all lay claims to mateship,
Iron Ned we all salute,
Thus march we on to Greatness,
Or drive there in our utes.
We trust no one who comes here,
Those Afro-Muslim hordes,
They come to steal our jobs and kids,
We must take to them with swords!

Still I love this fuckwit country,
Its cameras and its lies,
Its mindless jingoism,
Its endless swarms of flies.
It’s blind parochialism,
It’s weird, large, non-green trees,
I love it, cannot help myself,
This blind, dumb land for me.

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Boris Mihailovic

Boris is a writer who has contributed to many magazines and websites over the years, edited a couple of those things as well, and written a few books. But his most important contribution is pissing people off. He feels this is his calling in life and something he takes seriously. He also enjoys whiskey, whisky and the way girls dance on tables. And riding motorcycles. He's pretty keen on that, too.

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