New Zealand’s semi-official poet laureate Victor Billot pens topical verse every Sunday. Today: the undearly departed Jami-Lee Ross.
Non, je ne regrette rien
You are out Jami! Out of the loop.
Out of Botany. Out of National. Deep in the poop.
You sold out. You shacked up with that dingbat TK.
You thought this plandemic was a hand you could play.
Peddling misinformation to vulnerable peeps!
You’ve dug a big hole, several miles deep.
It’s getting hot in here. The lights blaze on down.
This annoying woman keeps telling you you’re a clown.
You reply in defence, I asked the hard questions, as you do!
Let me tell you about my expertise on clown flu.
That don’t cut the mustard, Jami old chap.
You are trampled over, quite rudely, in this ghastly trap.
Smoking ruins all around suggest you called it wrong.
Non, je ne regrette rien, may be your swansong.
Poor Jami. Your prognosis is dim it seems –
but you need not fear of Covid-19.
It is on national TV you suffered plenty:
the brutal ravages of Tova-20.
*Made with the support of Creative New Zealand*