Dinner Party Warriors
Amongst the inner city burrows there’s a stir
The moderately wealthy are texting and tweeting
There’s a dinner party to be had
The food and the wine will be flowing and organic
Better still, the political discussion focused and manic.
The dinner party warriors know their history
Their Marx, Engels and E. P. Thompson understood, ticked
Australian History? No, it’s all beards, hicks and sheep
The world outside their quinoa
Is under a European microscope while they drink the noir.
“Who is to blame?” is the question they ask
“It’s the Right, of course”, they’ll start
“Who would be attracted to a promise of individual liberty?”
They know what would be best for all
And it’s not shopping in an appalling suburban mall
“Who is to blame?” the question hovers in the air
“It’s the media, of course” comes the swift reply.
“It’s all about celebrities, sportsball and preening.”
Rocketing around the room comes “Did you read the post on my blog?
It was a sparkling riposte against the Media Watch Dog.”
“Who is to blame?” the question asked again
“It’s the Left, of course”, they’ll continue
“They have become captured to the evils of pragmatism.”
They used to be the power of the “left”
Until the neoliberals indulged in wholesale theft
“Who is to blame?” the question comes with a story
“It’s the corporate world of course” they will thunder
“They do terrible things in other countries, sometimes our own.”
Get out the boycotting signs
Take the iPhone photos of the angry ex-customer lines.
“Who is to blame?” the question continues
“It’s the political class, of course”, the answer almost complete
“They have no connection with the people outside their office.”
One of them remembered meeting people Out There
It was brief, “they” didn’t listen, even said he was a patronising lair.
“Who is to blame?” comes the dessert question
“The working class, of course”, the answer comes with final blow
“They vote that way because they are all easily duped.”
One of them recalls his own background of being working class
Not him, his grandfather, who used to grumble about management sitting on their arse.