Dead, buried, cremated

Johnny met Ted at the local pub down the road

Where they’d talk of the issues and news of the day

After a few beers they’d chat with Des (and his hat)

Who’d tell them; “Don’t worry, it’ll all go away.”


Johnny was worried he’d lose his house quite at random

With rising sea levels and his house by the ocean

“Don’t talk such crap,” said Ted and Des (and his hat)

“All you’re doing is causing commotion.”


“Everyone needs something to believe in ya know,”

Said Johnny to Des, at the bar having a beer

“Mate, they just want their face to be seen, fifteen minutes on screen

They play on everyone’s fear.”


“But this summer, Des, it’s been so bloody hot,

I know it’s climate change, global warming that’s caused it.

It’s gotta be true, everyone’s sayin’ so too,

And I believe ‘em, for no-one abhors it.”


“It’s all sensational fury from Greenies like John & Deb Bury

They say every day will be forty degrees

They tell reporters we won’t survive, heat will kill us, we’ll die

And don’t forget about those rising seas.”


“I shoulda bought up the cliff,” poor Johnny retorted

“There was a warning in 1980.

Back then it was thwarted, thank God it aborted

But not before the drowning of old Tom Delaney.”


“There’s so much said,” Ted rejoined, “and not enough read

About where tax dollars are goin’, ya know what I mean?”

“Too right,” Des said from the bar, fillin’ up another beer jar

“Our money’s flowin’ down the river upstream.”


“Have ya read ‘bout that wind tree? They think it’s for free

In Paris it was out on display.

Guv’ment subsidies fund it, the pollies are for it

But it energises nothin’ and no-one today.”


“Just seems to me they say lots but do little

While spendin’ wads of taxpayers’ cash

Cash I could use to take my wife on a cruise,

Have a bit of the old splash and dash.”


Six months later Johnny met Ted and Des at the local again

To discuss news of the how and the why and the when

The sea levels were down, but Johnny came with a frown

Greenpeace had joined up his 18 year-old son, Ben.


“If ya not red at eighteen you’re not part of the scene

Ya can’t join the protesters when marching

But if ya Liberal by fifty you’re seen to be swifty

The obscenities can be quite disarming.”


That summer Johnny measured the tide, but it failed to rise

He’d worried for no reason at all

Then he got the call, to give some, give all

But declined with a smugness of sorts

It was time to retort what the Greenies had thought

Next election he’d watch their vote fall.


Twelve months later, temperatures, they had abated

Officially, or so we were told

But the lefties maintained the rage, no matter their age

Like the Revolutionaries of old


Forty-five years passed by, and with good reason why

Climate change was carried away in a coffin

The science proven wrong, a hoax, no longer attracting a throng

Like the boy who cried wolf once too often.


As warming the planet had faded (activists now feeling jaded)

Political correctness, it didn’t survive

It was finally over, as hard as finding that four-leaf clover

If only Johnny, Ted and Des were alive.


How happy they’d be, or so it would seem

To see lefties flowin’ down river upstream

They felt detested, the anti-argument festered

Uncared for, untidy, unclean.


As the story began, a new page (a new fan)

The old story could no longer offend

Though climate change had been swarming, without any warning

It was dead, buried, cremated! The end.

Postscript: Please read this as it’s intended, as satire.

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