Our fruit rots on the ground,
and imported cans lie on the shelf,
Because it’s cheaper to get it from abroad
than to harvest it ourself.
What I don’t get is our pollies
whom hark back to yesteryear,
When our standard of living was the cornerstone,
of everything we hold so dear.
But in their quest to save a dollar
And make the playing field even,
Have they squeezed our stoic producers,
into a final season?