Duopoly (Australia, Held Hostage) - Poem

 Duopoly (Australia, Held Hostage)

Two masks, one face—red and blue,
But the boots they wear? Worn straight through.
They march in lockstep, speak in rhyme,
Trading roles, but keeping time.

Liberal, Labor—tug-of-war?
No—more like thieves at the same store.
One sells the lie, the other seals it,
And both will raise your tax to steal it.

They speak of choice, of vote, of voice,
But leave you stranded without choice.
Decades rule the same old men—
Dictators draped in suits again.

Democracy? A rusted crown.
The people rise, the parties drown.
Inflation grows from laws they pen,
And every fix is tax again.

They tax the work, they tax the dream,
They tax your breath, your newborn’s scream.
They tax your death, then dare to grin—
Their ledger fat, your pockets thin.

Bureaucrats with brittle pens
Strangle growth before it bends.
Technology? Choked in red,
While overseas surges ahead.

Three decades lost, industry gone,
Factories closed, the iron withdrawn.
Now we eat and watch and scroll—
A nation dulled, divorced from soul.

They turned our hands to idle trade,
And made our pride a discount blade.
We buy, we binge, we cheer and waste—
And feed the junk they shipped in haste.

But oh, the perks the powerful keep—
Superannuation theirs to reap.
The moment out, they line their plate,
While yours sits locked behind death’s gate.

They take your future, call it fair,
While cashing out with stocks and shares.
And when they sell what they once banned,
You’re told to clap. You must not stand.

And who now thrives in this new land?
The grifter class, with outstretched hand.
They call it “investment”—what a joke—
They’d sink without the tax they soak.

These aren’t producers—these are leeches,
Whose wealth depends on graft and speeches.
With breaks and credits, laws in tow,
They build their castles off your woe.

This is the duopoly:
A mirrored fraud, a mimicry.
No real left, no true right—
Just shadows shifting in plain sight.

Australia, caught between two kings,
Still waits for one who cuts the strings.
For freedom’s not in red or blue—
It’s in the hands of me and you.