I had written him a letter, which I had for want of better

Knowledge, sent to where I saw him rave, pretending that he cared.

He was campaigning when we knew him

And the Labor Party booed him:

Myself? I thought it funny that his lowly life was spared.

And an answer came directed full of typos unexpected,

(He has the grammar skills of your average Beanie Babe)

‘Twas his secretary wrote it,

And verbatim, I shall quote it:

"I’m Little Johnny Howard and your vote is what I crave."

Though the thought is not so bonny, visions come to me of Johnny,

Kissing babies, slapping tax upon what does and does not move.

And his mug, our coinage crowning?

No thanks! Life’s better drowning!

For things are pleasant as they are - this is the life we choose.

And the bush hath guns to meet him, no kindly voice shall greet him,

But in discontented murmurs speak of services he barred.

Nothing has he mended,

Just the GST defended.

We’d like to clock that balding head and have him seeing stars.

I’m not a common coward, but I’d not swap spots with Howard,

And suck the country dry just like a parasitic louse.

Let him face the glares eternal

In his office time infernal -

This is his self-imposed idolatry, Johnny of the Lower House.