'Twas the end of the day before Christmas, when all through the house, Not a creature was txting, not even a mouse.

Nor a whale, nor devil-beast, nor e'en John Key, Who was dreaming of putting greens in Hawaii.

The stockings were hung by the Beehive with care, In hopes that St Nicholas soon would be there.

The children were nestled all snug in their beds, While visions of smear campaigns danced in their heads.

Advertisement

When out on Cook Strait there arose such a clatter, They sprang from their beds to see what was the matter.

And what to their wondering eyes did appear, But a crusty old sleigh and eight feral reindeer.

It must be St Nick, beloved chimney fracker, That bibulous, brandy-soaked, childhood hacker.

Though wild and weird, St Nick sure ain't a phoney, At least so it said in an email from Sony.

All bloated and wheezy, red cheeks bright aflame, He whistled, and summoned the reindeers by name:

"Now, Crusher! now, Slater! now Jason and Farrar! On, Laila! On, Hone! On, Rawshark and Hager!"

The sleigh spluttered round like a loose garden hose, Its reindeers whacked out on Red Bull and NoDoz.

They leaked and they dumped and they bickered and squabbled, Soon Laila and Hone consciously uncoupled.

Advertisement

Puff Paddy the newsman roared, "Ho! Ho! Ho! Ho! Resign now, St Nick, there's just one sleep to go!"

But St Nick gave whistle, and, lo, he did shout: "We must crack on, deeries, or children miss out!"

The reindeers took heed, set the satnav for Naseby, 'Cept Slater, who blogged: "F*** children. They're lazy."

He pissed on the trifle and shat on the tree, Soon Key gave him a written apology.

But first St Nick entered the Beehive; he laughed, As his arse hit the concrete base of the lift shaft.

Te Uru asked Santa if he'd read the Treaty, And quick as a flash Paula jeered, "Zip it, sweetie!"

Nick spoke not a word, but went straight to his work, Examined the stockings; then turned with a twerk.

"This beehive is filthy, such squalor indeed. Did someone mishear? It's not called Christmas Ede.

"You must tidy your house, you must clean up your act, Or there'll be no more gifts as a matter of fact."

"Oh come on, get real," piped up St Michael Hosking. "You're not Jesus Christ, please just fill up our stockings."

Bill English agreed, scoffed, "Enough of this circus!" Plainly he hoped it might help reach that surplus.

Colin Craig gurned a grin. "Gee, this is neat! You look like that guy that I met on Queen Street."

"That creepy old thing? Distant cousin," said Santa, While grinding a sleeping pill into his Fanta.

"Fun as it's been, I must expedite elves, These presents won't get to Huntly by themselves!"

Then Andrew Little, a straight-talking chap, said, "You might save time if you just cut the wrap."

Then in swept the Maui hydra Metirussel, It eyeballed St Nick and flexed its dorsal muscle.

"Just where did you get that gift data," it wondered. "If it's from Five Eyes it's illegally plundered."

But Santa said, "Ho! Oh, no GCSB!" And settled them with a cup of tofu tea.

Davey High Seymour rose to the occasion, Swung a pistol at Santa, cried, "Stop home invasion!"

John Key said to Dave, "Hey babe, don't start with that," And he slapped on a novelty Yuletide hat.

"It's the cusp of a special day, give it a rest, kid. The whole Santa status is widely contested.

"Hardworking Kiwis, they know, actually, That Santa does not intrude proactively."

The reindeers, they gasped at Key's SMS skills, As he toe-typed a xms-txt to Kate and Wills.

"Royals!" the speaker cried, "We do not care." He was trying out lines from the new house Lorde's Prayer.

Look! Winston Peters on a box of wine. Measuring St Nicky's wide bottom line.

"How do we know if you like us or hate us? Where is the proof of your migration status?"

But Winston was kidding. That hat and that whisker? He knew that this guy was a Cuba Street hipster.

And just as St Nick was preparing to flee, He noticed his squad had one huge vacancy

Since Slater had piked, he was one reindeer short, He needed a new big-boned angry escort.

"Guten tag!" said a voice through the Wellington mist. I've had an annus megahorribilis.

"My wife she has left me, my lawyers have, too. Politically I had a moment of poo.

"I've nothing but videogames to enjoy." Less internet mogul, more sad teenage boy.

So Kimmy Dotcom was reined up with the team, His borked reputation at last was redeemed.

He joined in that grandest of grand Christmas missions. (Though possibly breached a few bail conditions.)

St Nick tied Kim in, to his team gave a whistle, And away they all flew like some wind-propelled tinsel.

"To the legal high shop in the Johnsonville Mall! Now dash away! dash away! dash away all!"

The reindeers they yelped like a castrated choir, Chocolate milk dripped from the number-eight wire.

St Nick mumbled something on focus and passion, That glint in his eye - hell's bells! It's Steve Hansen!

And Santa exclaimed, ere he geared up that sleigh. "Happy Christmas to all, at the end of the day!"

- With apologies to Clement Clarke Moore.

To donate to the Auckland City Mission visit bit.ly/NZXMAS