Who is He, Anyhow?

Is all Australia's honor in his keeping,
   That he, unaided, can bring us to shame?
And must we fall straightway to hopeless weeping,
   Because one man flings mud upon our name?
Are we so meek, so futile as a nation
   That we should wilt because one graceless gang,
The shameful banner of repudiation
   Flaunts in our faces?  Who is Mister Lang?

Is he so mighty that we poor weak mortals
   Must stand about and wail and bay the moon,
Or, with due deference, wait without his portals
   And crave indulgence from him as a boon?
Time was when we once marched to tunes inspiring
   And songs of victory that Diggers sang;
And now the whole astonished world's inquiring,
   "Who is this super-man?  Who's Mister Lang?"
 
A rather unimportant bloke in Sydney, 
   Who on crass impudence builds fleeting fame,
Forgathering with others of his kidney,
   Forswears a people in the people's name.
And we, the sturdy freemen of Australia,
   Submit, while on their foolish drum they bang;
And the world wonders; murmuring, inter alia,
   "Astounding spectacle!  Who's Mister Lang?"

Who's Mister Lang?  'Tis time we, too, inquiring,
   Took measures to unmask a demagogue,
Who re-enacts in guise so uninspiring,
  Again the famous fable of the frog.
'Twere folly to await the final bursting
   That must ensue when he goes with a bang.
Let's tell the world this thing for which it's thirsting,
   And, pricking him, remark, "Here's Mister Lang."