Poem – Joanna Collett – Where’s the Aussie Aid?

Dear Mrs Collett

Goodonya lovely lady to write of problems in OZ which are rife

Thanks to Canberra Suits, our once lucky country is in big strife

Long ago with blood, sweat and tears, we became a free nation

Until a space age virus whacked Pollys with blindness and retardation

Hang in there lovely lady, let your voice be loud and never mute

I support your views with this letter to the Boss of Canberra suits

Dear Prime Minister,

Political correctness is gathering speed to change what used to be

While OZ burns, Parliament fiddles with debates on He or She 

Gladiators paint finger nails pink and chastened if foe are made dead 

Black is no longer black, and if you disagree, be careful what is said

Racist, bigot or homophobic is now used to counter opposing views  

Ape, dunce, midget, sheila and basxxtard are terrible words and taboo **

On TV, you quoted from Dot’s poem, of “Drought and flooding rain”

It’s been heard for over a hundred years by thirsty mobs in pain

Yet still with each flood, precious gold escapes freely to the sea

Sir, go abroad where lakes and dams are where arid land used to be

Let’s get off our arse and create a disaster fund this very day

You could start by reducing foreign aid until we can pay our way  

There are no leaders at the wheel and OZ is on a dangerous sea

Reefs of poverty, discontent, and disunity are near and soon to be

It’s time to change direction and once more be united as one

Time for true blue leaders to take us from darkness and find the sun

To rationalise immigration, debt, energy, kill PC and much more

Rescue our beloved OZ, stolen by a noisy few, or go find the* #*door

George Mansford  – August 18

***The reason I distort basxxxsrd is because a robot rejects all of the message to many recipients. 


Mrs Collett’s letter poem to the Prime Minister says:

G’day Mr Turnbull, I trust that you are fine,

Sorry to be bothering you, but there’s something on my mind

I listened to a bloke last week; he had a bit to say

You lot may have heard of him? He delivers all that hay?


He spoke of countless hours and the distances they drive

Feeding starving stock, to keep bush hopes alive

They do not get assistance from your tax funded hat

They do it on their own, all off their own bat


I’m not politically minded and I don’t have any clout

And I know you’ve done a tour, to learn about the drought

But there’s just some burning questions, that have left us feeling beat

Why did we fund a foreign land, to learn to cut up meat?


And what about those soccer boys, who went and got all lost

You pulled out all the bloody stops, plain just showing off

You’ve bigger problems here at home, there’s drought up to our necks

So what does your mob go and do?  Give them big fat cheques!


Don’t they have a government to deal with all this stuff?

Why should it be up to us, what’s with all your fuss?

Should we not be reigning in and look after our own

Have you never heard the phrase “charity starts at home”?


I realise there’s many things, that need an allocation

And I also can appreciate, complex trade relations

I’m not sure if you realise, but if our stock all die,

There won’t be any trade you see, your deals will all run dry


As a rule we’re not a whinging lot, our requests are but a few

Most of us who work the land, are tested, tried and true

We respect that we are guardians, and sustain it for the kids

But I often have to wonder, what future will it bring?


I guess all that I’m wondering, is “where’s the Aussie aid”?

Wrapped up in a swag of tape, only then to be repaid ! 

There’s Aussie blokes and chicks out there, putting you to shame

Helping fellow Australians, in their time of pain


I’m just a simple farmer, grazier, wife and mum

And even though we’re feeding stock, we’re better off than some

I’ve never had to shoot a cow, who could no longer stand

But many have before me, and I pray, I’m not dealt that hand


So will you take another look; admit that we’re in strife ?

And do more than bloody empathise, before another farmer takes their life ?

I’d like to think you’ll do what’s right and put Australia first

And help your own damn country, before this drought gets any worse

Joanna Collett
Wee Waa NSW


  1. good one keep it up

  2. Libby Balmer says

    Hi Joanna!
    You are a hero! My family had a property at Wee Waa and I lived through the 1963-1967 drought with them and saw all the animals I loved die from hunger and malnutrition. What are the pollies doing for our farmers? Will they wake up when there is no more lamb and beef in the shops! Good on you and may your poem be read by ALL politicians and maybe raise their awareness!

  3. Scott Dixon says


    History is receding like an early morning mist,
    And adds a generation to her obituary list.
    The future is now looming like a dark and present cloud,
    As feebly they slip away, once young, strong and proud.

    With them goes a treasure of stories left untold,
    An inheritance of freedom that can’t be bought or sold.
    Our Aussie spirituality, our heart, our roots, our core,
    A steadfast way of being forged through hardship, drought and war.

    We survey destructive progress with arrogance and pride,
    Upon an avalanche of change we jostle, scheme and ride.
    Our cities spread like rashes in an unchecked urban sprawl,
    And should a brother question us, we build another wall.

    Old Lawson he foretold a time, (when he was off the bottle),
    Of freedom on the wallaby and how blood would stain the wattle.
    Of those who came and pioneered a garden full of promise,
    “Till greed would crook her filthy hand, that time is surely on us.

    Our politicians rant and rave and promise this and that,
    But few have had a calloused hand or worn the old slouch hat.
    I’m yet to hear one make a stand and firmly reassure us,
    That we should embrace the values dear of those who came before us.

    Let’s not forget the courage now that didn’t seem to flinch,
    Outnumbered on Kokoda but gave up not one inch.
    Let’s not forget the mateship of a Burmese railway hell,
    Nor the sacrifices made and not the names of those who fell.

    Let’s not forget the pioneers who braved the new frontiers,
    Or the drover’s wife who spent her days in loneliness and tears.
    The explorers and adventurers who blazed the beaten track,
    The graves of unknown bushmen lost in the great outback.

    The mailmen and bush pilots who bridged the final gap,
    The defiance of Ned Kelly or the pride of old Phar Lap.
    Henry and old Banjo who painted it in rhyme,
    A young colonial nation in a wild and rugged time.

    Our farmers who kept farming when the market wasn’t right,
    Battlers who kept battling and wouldn’t quit the fight.
    To all who made Australia mean more than just a name,
    A history of hardship that made us strong and game.

    I fancy there will come a day, I don’t think it’s too far,
    When we will look into the past, to find out who we are.
    The thought has got me smiling, I’m prepared to bet my hat,
    ‘Cause we’re more than just a little bushed, we don’t know where we’re at.

    Still the youngest of all nations, we posture and we pose,
    What Australian really means it seems nobody knows.
    So until that time, let us embrace with deepest veneration,
    The greatest proof of who we are….. a passing generation.

    By Chris Long

  4. Scott Dixon says

    This was written by a good mate and then put to music. We sell the CD’s for $10.00 and donate to buy a Bale

    When the shearing sheds are silent and the stock camp’s fallen quiet.
    When the gidgee coals no longer glow across the outback night.
    And the bush is forced to hang a sign, “gone broke and won’t be back”,
    And the spirits fear to find a way beyond the beaten track.

    When harvesters stand derelict upon the wind swept plains,
    And brave hearts pin their hopes no more on the chance of loving rains,
    When a hundred outback settlements are ghost towns overnight,
    When we’ve lost the drive and heart we had to once more see us right.

    When “Pioneer” means stereo and “Digger” some backhoe,
    And the “Outback” is behind the house. There’s nowhere else to go.
    And “Anzac” is a biscuit brand and probably foreign owned,
    And education really means, brainwashed and neatly cloned.

    When you have to bake a loaf of bread to make a decent crust,
    And our heritage once enshrined in gold is crumbling to dust.
    And old folks pay their camping fees on land for which they fought,
    And fishing is a great escape that is until you’re caught.

    When you see our kids with Yankee caps and resentment in their eyes,
    And the soaring crime and hopeless hearts is no longer a surprise,
    When the name of R.M. Williams is some yuppie clothing brand,
    Not a product of our heritage that grew from off the land.

    When offering a hand makes people think you’ll amputate,
    And two dogs humping in the street is what you call a “Mate”.
    When “Political Correctness” has replaced all common sense,
    When you’re forced to see it their way, there’s no sitting on the fence.

    Yes one day you might find yourself an outcast in this land,
    Perhaps your heart will tell you then “I should have made a stand”,
    Just go and ask the farmers, that should remove all doubt,
    Then join the swelling ranks who say, “Don’t sell Australia Out”.

    By Chris Long