New Zealand’s demi-official poet laureate Victor Billot composes an ode for the somewhat out of favour National Party
Beyond the Polls
Rising a thousand spans above the desolate plain
stands the Black Wall of the Polls.
On the far side, Queen’s Landing and sunshine:
where Cindy the Kind cavorts
amongst unicorns and pink butterflies.
Lady Judith of Oravida, doughty battler,
glares at the unpassable cliff before her.
She craves to join battle with her sworn enemies:
the Pinks, the Greens, and the House of Woke.
Her cannons blast mighty missiles.
Separatism! Open borders! Beneficiaries!
Kaboom! Thud! Phizz!
The Black Wall remains unmarked.
In the rear the clanking armour
of doubtful allies, her kinsmen:
Toad the Brief and Simon the Unfortunate,
and Baron Luxon, following at a safe distance,
his bald pate gleaming in the wintry light.
But hark! Lo!
A blast of mournful horns. From swirling snow,
lurches a fell figure breathing frost.
In his frozen wake tumble ANZ mortgages,
ponytails and brain fades,
and a foot-dragging, blank-eyed zombie army
of swinging voters.
An ice blue standard he raises high:
The Black Wall of the Polls shudders and cracks;
all fall before him in terror.
The King of the Dead has returned.