Dress Rehearsal for Kings Who Talk Like Dads

Short Memories
We Australians file the past like tax returns;
out of sight, deemed compliant.
So we point, smug as Border-Force beagles,
at an orange-tinted Yankee who wants a crown,
forgetting the peanut farmer we embalmed last decade;
whose oils still linger in the archives.

Outsider
Joh in dust-kicked Kingaroy: plain bloke, Bible, bulldozer.
Donald in gold-leaf Manhattan: tie like a warning flare.
Different pinstripes;
same cloth.
Each swore the system was a crooked poker table;
only his hands were clean enough to shuffle the deck.

Feeds
“Don’t you worry about that!” Joh chirped,
scattering crumbs to journos he called chooks.
“Fake-news media … enemy of the American people!” tweeted Donald,
barrelling through the coop with a bullhorn.
Two verses, one melody: shoot the messenger, hum the tune yourself.

Marches
Joh outlawed protest with a shrug:
“Protest marches are a thing of the past.”
Donald winked at the Proud Boys:
“Stand back and stand by.”
Brass-band bravado for muzzling dissent;
civic space shrinks to the size of the leader’s ego.

Folksy Autocracy
“I always talk in a way they can’t understand!” says Joh,
a coy confession dressed as hillbilly charm.
“I could stand in the middle of Fifth Avenue and shoot somebody…”
boasts The Donald, borrowing Joh’s pistol, upgrading to Broadway lighting.
Against such paternal confidence, we’re children at bedtime:
“Hush now, Daddy’s got this,” the story goes,
and the moral is always trust me.

Swamp
Joh: “You don’t tell the frogs anything before you drain the swamp.”
Donald: “Drain the swamp!” on a merch cap near you.
Same amphibian, same plughole, same applause.
Only the souvenir stall has changed hands.

The Four Step Shuffle:
Invent the peril.
Vilify the watchdogs.
Promise simple salvation.
Punish the sceptics.

Repeat until the crowd forgets Verse One.

Finale
If you’re waiting for the credits to roll, beware;
this is not a film but a touring show.
Strongmen exit, leaving their catchphrases
to haunt talkback radio like earworms.
My slender comfort, dear reader, is statistical:
the world has always been certifiable,
yet somehow you’re still here;
scribbling in the margins,
counting the rhymes,
keeping the playbook where everyone can see it.

F.S.F.