Dear Prince George,
A koha, a souvenir, something to read on the long flight to NZ.
Out of the gate, and off for a walk, went Cheery McWavy, to kiss all the babies.
Behind him the pack followed up hill and down, keen to be seen with the top dog in town.
Muffin McJoyce whispered in Cheery's ear, attack lines, fresh jokes for the financial year.
Collins O'Lait was all cocky and strutting. But Muffin coughed hairballs, rudely interrupting:
"You better watch out for that one, Mr Cheery. Don't let her scoff scampi at Donaldson's Dairy!"
Terrier Hekia kept up the pace, fast going forward down all the pathways.
English Bill pricked up his nose and his ears, insisting that in conclusion under Cheery McWavy's leadership, together with hardworking families and businesses we have steered the economy through some of the most significant challenges we've seen in generations, putting us on track to surplus next year.
Cheery McWavy scampered off south, past the heifers and lardos to Government House.
But no sooner had McWavy woofed, "Friends, follow me!" a litter of runts trapped him in Lambton Quay.
"You are arrogant, dishonest, sneery and vain," said a voice down the road from Kirkcaldie & Stains.
"I know who that is!" huffed Muffin, all twinkly. "That's Cunliffe, fiendish old Tricky Malinki!"
"What the woof?" wheezed Cunliffe, "Don't call me that." But the truth is he did look a lot like a cat.
Then suddenly waves started splashing around, and screeches rang out, a strange dolphin-like sound.
Rusty McTurei said climate change beckons. But Cheery went, "listen, here's what I reckon.
"Hardworking Kiwis, and wow! and so funny. And you can woof off and go print some more money."
Hone barked, "McWavy, You're so bloody dumb."
"That's quite right," deadpanned low-tummied Schnitzel Dotcom.
"Let's livestream some grooves, then let's lay down a hangi, and innovate Te Tiriti O Wi-FiTangi."
(Collie Craig squirmed - such a queer bitch was she! - and yelped, "You'll be hearing from my attorney.")
Then who should emerge, like a ghost from the mist? Why it's Whytey the basset-hound ontologist!
And what is his view of the young future king? He has none, for his only god is Nothing.
Does he believe in thunderstorms? Certainly not. Does he believe in public services? Not a jittery jot.
Is he frightened of blogs when they lollop and leap? No! Well, maybe a little. He washes his whiskers and goes home to weep.
THEN came the sound that echoed around, "WROOWWW-W-W-W-W-W-W-"
"Uh-oh," said Cheery, and off he went.
"Miaow," said Cunliffe, clambering backwards, very caninely.
Puffing and panting, impatient to see, together they came to the green parrot tree.
They sniffed and they snuffled, they bustled around, and they saw WHAT was making the terrible sound.
Winston Peters, the toughest tom in town.
The din was so awful, that up hill and down, MMP smelt like an old dressing gown.
McWavy, Cunliffe and Winnie met eyes. And Winnie yapped, "See what September supplies".
Devilbeasts vanquished, McWavy waved bye, put on his jacket, a novelty tie. An apron with boobs, some barbecue tongs, a dossier filled with traditional songs.
Love to the grandma, some banter on sport; a word on that singer who's from Devonport.
"Haere Mai," Cheery cried, cocking a leg. "If your highness is thirsty, we'll crack out the keg.
"Hope you like sausages just slightly seared, and don't mind me saying your dad's a bit weird.
"We're changing the flag, as you probably saw. We'll stick on a Hobbit, or Richie McCaw.
"But no need to worry, there's no masterplan. God save the queen I'm a monarchy man."
They giggled and goggled, played beer pong till three. They flew round the Beehive on a Buzzy Bee.
Everyone cheered, and they jabbered, they cried. Their cold tongues hung out, with warm fuzzies inside.
And back to their business, their focus group dailies, went all of the others with Cheery McWavy.