Denis Kevans
Where are the hands of Justice
Must they wear tuxedoes ‘n tails?
And sprinkle invisible, golden dust
Upon her imperial scales?
Justice is blind, she sits to give
Equal judgement to you and me,
But ask VISTA workers, who must live
Waiting for her eyes to see.
Justice is blind, unseeing her eyes,
So that when she sits on cases,
She will only hear the evidence
Not look at the work-worn faces.
Surely she must have sniffed up big
For a spot from the greaser’s can,
Inside the VISTA “bags of fruit”,
And thought: “He’s a working man.”
Here they are, they won their case,
the HIGH COURT said: “Now pay!”
But the boss and their lawyers just ignore
What the HIGH COURT had to say.
Justice, sister, reach your hand,
And touch the tears that flow
From the eyes of the VISTA workers,
Who cannot get their dough.
And reach down there, inside their hearts,
Where a spike-toothed Rat does gnaw,
The Rat that says for you VISTA blokes,
There’s no JUSTICE in the LAW.
And if you can’t see, blind Justice,
Sniff up, and I suppose,
You’ll smell the scent of INJUSTICE
With each crinkle of your nose.
Each spot upon the four-year trail
Of the VISTA workers’ case,
Will make you cough and gag and spit
And wrinkle up your face.
Your vomit then throw up in Court,
And the delicate barristers’ feet,
May have to trip about it,
In a dance in Phillip Street.
The VISTA boss said: “I am broke,
There’s old carpet in the foyer”,
But who did he brief, the old ‘tea-leaf,
But Bjelke-Petersen’s lawyer?
Listen, Justice, the VISTA workers
Are pleading at your door,
The bleeding from their hearts must stop,
You must enforce the LAW.
Finns of consultants and other clowns,
Who practise lying, with each breath,
Must be forced to OBEY the LAW,
Instead of choking her to death.
See, a working bloke, who refuses to choke,
Or throttle himself with a tie,
Or stand, a galoot, in “a bag of fruit”,
Will make her ruffle an eye.
Or maybe a ‘broke’, a ‘snitch’ or a ‘toke’,
Whose centrefold is whiffy,
Will make her nostrils do the ‘australs’,
“This bastard is a bit ‘iffy”‘.
A worker who has not tubbed up
With lots of cashmere bouquet,
She’ll catch the aroma of the old beachcomber,
And her judgement goes astray.
Her eyes won’t twinkle, but her nose will wrinkle
When a worker fronts their Honours,
“Where’s the Cashmere Bouquet, take him away,
What’s this has come upon us?”
Justice has a nose, for all of those,
She can smell from Perth to here,
So throw on the Brutt, put on a suit
, She can smell your working gear.
Justice, sister, reach your hand
And touch the tears that flow,
From the eyes of VISTA workers,
Who cannot get their dough.
And reach down there inside their hearts,
Where a spike-toothed Rat does gnaw,
The Rat that says for you VISTA blokes
There’s no JUSTICE in the LAW.
Justice heard what should be done,
The words of the HIGH COURT bench,
Now she must sniff, and sniff up big,
And sniff INJUSTICE’S stench.
Then the hands of Justice might be seen
To have blisters and dirty nails,
Nor sprinkle invisible, golden dust
Upon her Imperial scales.
(7 September 1994)