The Politically Incorrect Show - 23/08/2000

[Music - Die Fledermaus]

Good afternoon, KAYA ORAAAA & welcome to the Politically Incorrect Show on the free speech network, Radio Pacific, for Wednesday August 23, proudly sponsored by Neanderton Nicotine Ltd, the show that says bugger the politicians & bureaucrats & all the other bossyboot busybodies who try to run our lives with our money; that stands tall for free enterprise, achievement, profit & excellence against the state-worshippers in our midst; that stands above all for the most sacred thing in the universe, the liberty of the human individual.

[Music up, music down]

There's a very famous song by Oscar Rasbach called Trees - from the days when songs were songs - which Greenies would love if they could hear beyond their dope-addled caterwaulers & folk-moaners. It goes like this:

I think that I shall never see
A poem lovely as a tree.
A tree whose hungry mouth is pressed
Against the earth's sweet-flowing breast;
A tree that looks at God all day,
And lifts her leafy arms to pray ...

A tree that may in summer wear
A nest of robins in her hair.
Upon whose bosom snow has lain,
Who intimately lives with rain;
Poems are made by fools like me,
But only God can make a tree.

Now, one Gary North, author of a book called Crossed Fingers: How the Liberals Captured the Presbyterian Church, has penned new, Politically Incorrect words to the melody, guaranteed to get on the unwashed wicks of every tree-hugger this side of the black stump (oops!). I dedicate it today to Jeanette Fitzsimons & Nandor Tanczos. It's called Ode to a Dead Tree:

I think that I shall never see
A sight as lovely as a tree:
A tree cut down for pulp and boards,
Cut down for profit and rewards.

Whenever forests disappear
To fill a bookstore front to rear,
The angels sing a glorious song,
Especially if the books are long.

When trees grow high above the earth
I love to estimate their worth.
I praise the chainsaw and the axe,
Converting trees to paperbacks.

I love to contemplate bare hills,
Solutions to society's ills.
For every tree dragged out by hooks
May soon become a shelf of books.

When men cry "Timber!" I rejoice,
A perfect use for human voice.
The sound of buzz saws is symphonic
As long as books remain dendronic.

I think of trees throughout the ages
Especially as I'm turning pages:
Majestic trees in ageless mists
Transformed into best-sellers' lists.

Down my spine I get the shivers:
Giant forests into slivers!
Forests growing through long winters;
Spring will see them all in splinters.

The thought of trees cut down for wood,
Serving man as nature should,
Literate mankind now confesses:
"Cut the trees and start the presses!"

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