New Zealand’s rebel poet laureate composes an ode for Sir John of Key
The messenger from the North
Lo! There cross the wide plain marched a great host.
The King of the Dead, woken from slumber,
had risen from his Vast Cold Tomb in Parnell
and walked again amongst the living.
Summon’d he a great army of zombie hobbits.
Clad in BBQ apron and holding a beersie,
he tramped with dread intent on the Gates
of the Smug Hermit Queendom of Xanadu.
And he spoke to the zombie hobbits;
and proclaimeth tinctures and cloves of garlic
would hold the pestilence at bay.
Lo, said the King, throw the Gates open.
Lo, offer zombie hobbits potions outside the taverns.
Lo, throw the serfs a groat to drink the elixir.
Lo, for we shall eat and drink and be free
as the lambs gambolleth in the spring meadow.
The merchants grow weary of thin takings:
now is the time to be bold and risk and sacrifice,
although the sacrifice may not be mine.
And the people looked one way and whither:
and said do we believe the Red Queen and her counsel
who fear not hunger with their generous weekly salaries;
or do we heed the King of the Dead and his counsel
of dude bros talking outeth their arses on talkback radio?
And the people were dismayed,
and they fell to squabbling amongst each other.
Thus was the Queendom divided,
and battle was joined and bloody vengeance obtain’d.