New Zealand’s rogue poet laureate composes an Ode for the Mayor of Invercargill
The Ides of October
Dark days were they in Inver Vegas.
The Senate was riven by factions.
The factions were the Senate on one hand,
and Tim, Caesar of Vegas, on the other.
Matters of State weighed heavily
upon them, and speeches were made,
and the location of the Imperial concrete mixer
and hundredfold bits and bobs
on the Imperial estates were fiercely contested.
Et tu, Nobby? cried Caesar Tim,
as he nursed a paper cut on his thumb
from yet another vexatious point of order.
Thou nest of treacherous vipers!
Thou would deny me my rights to attend
the Three Waters Conference,
whatever in Jove’s name that may be.
But no matter, for I will instruct my
Loyal Caesaria Asha to fly me northwards
in my great polka dot decorated balloon
The World’s Fastest Indian, as she is not only
my PA, speech writer, public relations adviser,
chauffeur, security guard, amanuensis,
computer programmer, soulmate
and dancing partner, but also
a top notch hot air balloon pilot.
Lo, and the attentions of the Minister
for Local Government were demanded,
but the Minister smiled sadly, and saith
O simpletons, do you think I am dumb?
For what fool would presume to tell the
proud barbarians of the South how to run things?
So the shadows lengthened,
as accusations and counter accusations
flew across the Senate chambers;
and the distinct aroma of bullshit and jellybeans
slowly filled the air.