Human Resource Management
They get ‘em early.
When they’re fresh outta the womb.
Still in shock,
And manageable,
Eyes closed,
Bawling their eyes out.
Sign,
Stamp,
Date,
Inject,
Stamp again,
File,
Back He goes,
On loan for five years.
They wait,
Till He can walk,
Is toilet trained,
Can talk.
Until He’s no longer totally
dependent.
Then,
The lease expires,
And He’s returned in working order,
almost mint condition
to those state-run facilities,
Sign here, please.
Stamp.
Date.
Stamp again.
File.
Religion?
Gender?
Name?
Race?
Address?
Star sign?
Stamp again.
Sign here.
File.
Here He stays,
For the next eight years.
He’s taught to add,
Subtract,
Write.
Colour
– though not outside the lines.
Walk,
don’t run.
No yelling
inside voice.
But most importantly,
When attacked,
do not,
Hit back,
Just run,
hide,
And tell the institution.
They’ll solve your problem.
Crucial training for a
Conforming,
Obedient,
Little
victim,
They make Him,
And the rest of them,
All in uniform,
Sing the anthem
– though most pretend,
Mouthing empty words,
Like politicians making promises.
There’s the flag,
The principal.
Be polite,
smile,
Show respect.
It’s all practice.
Eight years pass,
They’re bigger,
Hitting puberty.
Starting to think differently.
Another crucial moment.
Forget algebra, prose,
Chem and poetry,
And anything else of,
Any value.
That all comes second.
First comes civics.
Student Development,
Our version of history,
Our economics,
Bible study,
And homework.
— enough until that,
Growing back bends
Under the weight,
Of that heavy bag.
The lessons learned?
Certification,
Is far more important,
Than
education.
Good,
conforming,
Little grunts
get good jobs.
Rebels get,
arrested.
And that’s only the,
First stage in the saga,
Of growing up,
Into indoctrination.
Next they ask,
“What does it mean to be
Australian?”
And before the essays due,
They introduce the recruiter,
And soon,
He’s on his way,
Styre in hand.
Paid for,
Manufactured,
Sealed,
And delivered
By fellow,
Obedient,
little,
Grunts.
And now He’s a soldier,
Invading a foreign land,
And they point,
And they tell ‘im
To go put a bullet in,
the other grunts.
But all the while the other grunts,
Are in the same situation,
Only from a far away land,
Who’s political orientation
is in question,
Which justifies the dropping of
bombs.
Sign here.
Stamp.
Date.
Stamp.
File.
Deliver.
Rest assured,
He came home,
Full of holes,
In a body bag.
While fighting terrorists,
Or fascists,
Maybe communists,
Or were they criminals?
— even rebellions,
Riots or guerrilla insurgency’s?
But what we do know,
Is that He was,
Defending the nation,
And it’s way of life.
That whole cliché.
That grunt died,
In
your name.
Because a politician,
He never met,
Told a whole number
Of other grunts,
It was the right thing to do.
Even though that politician,
Remained
safely,
Back in parliament.
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