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Dear Mr Turnbull,

To my dear Mr Turnbull, I stopped writing letters to you some time ago; I suppose you might say, so what? So what indeed? Well the answer is in the pudding, which you f**ked up. Mate, you couldn’t run a pie-cart at footy grand final and I’m glad to say goodbye to ya. May all ya chicken grow up to be emus and may they kick ya dunny down. Ya down under wacko!


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