(To be sung, perhaps, to the tune of ‘We Three Kings Of Orient Are’)
Attend the rage of Christopher Pyne,
His face as puce as burgundy wine;
From Connski to Gonski and back again
He seemed, every other day, insane.
He punned, he smiled, he strutted, preened,
He snickered like a hellish fiend,
He tap-danced over red-hot coals
While colleagues studied plunging polls.
They dared not ask where had he been,
This silly, mincing drama queen,
When priests and teachers in his youth
Cried, ‘Speak up, boy, and tell the truth.’
He shrieked, he nattered, fibbed and sneered,
He struck good folk as fucking weird,
Those forty-eight nights on Q&A
He seemed so madly sweet and gay.
But Destiny came for Christopher Pyne
Who did not know when he’d crossed the line
By threat’ning to wreck the lives and hopes
Of those unencumbered by Queens and Popes.
He did not get it, in the end.
He thought each pun would make a friend,
And love result if he wagged his tail.
He’s buggered now, please God. Wassail.