The Holey Land
The Lost Tribes of Zealandia wandered in the badlands.
The road was long and hard:
Lo, the road disintegrateth beneath their fat tyres.
On Monday, a great deluge washed away the lanes.
On Tuesday, the swollen sun melted the tarmac.
On Wednesday, nine hundred log trucks pounded past.
On Thursday, they were misdirected by a confusing roadsign
In a strange illegible script that read “Tauranga 50 km.”
On Friday, the tax collectors arrived and took all their shekels.
On Saturday, The People were momentarily distracted
By a record breaking seven hundred million dollar Power Ball draw.
On the Sabbath, all gathered and lamented.
Who will lead us to the Promised Land? They cried.
A Godly one stepped forward from the tribes of Auk:
A prophet amongst men.
Gritty dust blew around his hairless knees.
His Holeyness Simeon of the Shovel spake.
Lo, Simeon says, potholes are the wages of sin.
Saint Simeon signalled to his communications team
Who came forward and anointed him
In aromatic fumes of priceless 91 Unleaded,
And clad him in a spotless new red helmet,
A steam pressed orange hi viz vest
And a gleaming spade with the Mitre 10 price tag
Still hanging off it.
Lo, said Simeon. We will redirect your tax shekels
From the road safety budget to the pothole budget.
The People roared their approval,
For they were a simple and uncomplicated lot.
But the way was still blocked:
There was a giant pothole in the middle
Of the On Ramp to Heaven.
The People wailed and gnashed.
Not a problem, said Saint Simeon.
Up came King Chipkins carrying a very large awkward object
Which he cast down into the chthonic abyss for all eternity.
Thus the Pothole was filled with the wealth tax,
Then covered over most thoroughly with boulders and concrete.
The People accelerated on towards Paradise in their monster SUVs,
Which according to The Book of Simeon,
Is located in the carpark
Of the Pakuranga Warehouse.