THE FILLY OF FRESH REVOLT HAS HER WEIGH WITH HYMN

A seething frustration breaks the tepid mold,

Where beige machines and iron grips 

have grown predictably cold.

For decades locked in cloistered halls, 

the faction bosses swore
That silent, stale conformity 

would rule the caucus floor.

But deep within the grassroots soil,

a quiet ferment churns,

As voter trust in corporate blocks 

explicitly overturns.

No longer content to sit aside 

and watch the dark descend,

An independent, 

fierce resolve begins to apprehend.

They rise to foment courage 

where the cookie-cutters quail,

Intelligent, divine feminine voices striking at the stale.

Like Hannah Ferguson, 

they speak with razor-sharp intent,

Refusing scripts, ignoring threats, 

bypassing party room consent.

Their steady voice becomes a chord 

that echoes through the night,

To provoke the sleeping backbenchers 

and drag them to the light.

They instigate a brand new day 

where raw conviction speaks,

And puncture all the hollow praise 

the polished coward seeks.

This is no quiet, managed shift, 

no compromise or false peace,

But an uprising of the spirit demanding its release.

To incite a true rebellion against 

the old boys’ club,

They turn the gears of history 

and strike the central hub.

The beige Titanic tilts and cracks 

against a rising tide,

Where managed, 

safe careerists have nowhere left to hide.

Through authentic, 

fierce protest and democratic evolution,

The unaligned have set the spark

 for a political revolution.