The Austral Irony

© Evan Elpus

The culprits doing damage to the fibre of our land
Aren't just the gung-ho clearfelling troglodytic band
For up the tree, past you and me, are managers like Ma
Who, blessed with hectares three-point-five, anoints them 'Sussex Park'.
Pajero-pioneering on the suburb's ragged edges,
He tidies wild Australia with his rows of cypress hedges.
They're nutrient-devouring, and a hymn to tunnel vision,
Yet see how neat these daleks are, their military precision!
And see how Nature, challenged thus, maintains things symbiotic
When stringybark and wattle are replaced by the exotic
So out go parrot, glider, wren and other native darlings,
And in come myna, sparrow and then starlings, bloody starlings
For every time a cypress, birch or pine is fresh interred,
Rely on this; it's kinder to have shot a lyrebird
So, Mark is in the sauna swilling champers with his wife,
While outside, local avifauna's fighting for its life
And that's the Austral Irony, a sort of grim equation
That rises up to bite us when we talk of conservation
We may boast of space a-plenty and our love of bush, but surel
Our land's best landscapes often fall to those who treat them poorly.