Trying my hand at a little poetry
T’was the night before the election, when all through Parliament House, not a creature was stirring not even an apple mouse. The how to vote cards were hung near the polling booths with care. In hopes that Democracy soon would be there. The voters were nestled all snug in their beds: Whilst visions of election free news spots, danced in their heads. When out on the lawn their arose such a clatter, was it Oakshott, Windsor, Palmer or Katter. Away to the window I flew like a flash, tore open the shutters and threw up the sash. The moon on the breast of the new spring lawn, give a prophetic edge to the era about to dawn. When, what to my wondering eyes should appear: a media throng, Rudd, Abbott and the Greens who had no idea.
With a little old driver, seemingly brave and not a coward, I knew in a moment it must be little Johnny Howard. More rapid than eagles his coursers they came. And he whistled, and shouted, and called them by name! “Now Bishop! now, Morrisson! now, Albanese and Pine!On, Swanny! On, Macklin! on Brandis and Ryan! To the top of the porch! to the top of the wall! Now dash away! Dash away! Dash away all!”
As dry leaves that before the wild cyclone fly, When they meet with an obstacle, mount to the sky. So up to the polling booths the coursers they flew, With a lung full of promises, much hot air and a baby kiss or two. And then, in a twinkling, I heard on the first call out – although surprisingly normal. “Number all the boxes in the lower house, or it will be informal.”
The electorate did wince when they saw the frenzied throng. But were comforted through democracy by little old John. And I heard him remark as he drove out of sight. Happy Democracy Day and to all a good night.
By Peter Pilt