’TWAS THE NIGHT BEFORE COUP DAY
(with apologies to Clement Moore)
‘Twas the night before Coup Day, when all through the House
Not a creature was stirring who wasn’t a louse.
The plotters were planning the details with care,
In hopes that Saint Malcolm soon would be there.
When burst forth on Twitter such feeling, such clatter,
I sprang from my limo to see what was the matter.
Up to my office I flew like the wind,
All was in play, for those who had sinned.
Leigh Sales and Mark Scott and Tony Jones too
Would give lustre and haloes to our man, ’twas true.
Who cares for principle when perks are at stake?
We needed a lefty, a man on the make.
Good looks, a lawyer, bank accounts that were full,
I knew in a moment it must be Turnbull.
More cunning than Gillard’s, his lackeys they came,
And he whistled and shouted and called them by name:
“Now Arthur! Now Niki!
Now Ryan and Wyatt!
On, Fifield! On, Mark Scott!
On, PVO and McGrath!
To the top of the Party!
To the top of the charts!
Now be rid of him! Rid of him!
And his team of Old Farts!”
As monarchists before the Queen tend to kneel,
A few more MPs were all we had to peel.
So up to the House his lackeys they flew,
With promises and spending, ‘Please join our crew!’
And then, in a twinkling, I heard on the box
The prancing and fawning of each of these schlocks.
As I puffed up and gloated and was turning around,
Down my hallway came Malcolm, Mr. Rebound.
He was dressed in Armani, hair perfectly styled,
And his manner was measured, not spicy but mild.
A bundle of concessions he’d strapped to his back,
Not for him any fights, any hassles or flak.
The stump of a caucus he held tight in his hand,
Party faithful, by contrast, were there to withstand.
‘I’m better than Shorten’, was his favourite line,
So he said to Mitchell; he said it to Pyne.
He was bending and mod’rate, a jolly old polly,
And I gushed when I saw him, in spite of my folly.
A wink of his eye and a twist of his head
Soon gave me to know my job had nothing to dread.
He spoke many words, the jargon did work,
And calmed down the journos, who’d gone half berserk.
Spouting the line that ‘It’s the possible that matters’,
’Twas 4-to-1-on he’d leave the Party in tatters.
Manchurian Malcolm, the man for The Oz,
Gave more than a few of us reason to pause.
But I heard him exclaim, now safely in place,
‘Happy Coup Day to all’, from Malcolm The Two-Face.