’Twas a fortnight ’til Xmas. St Cyril came bearing ... niks

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’Twas a fortnight ’til Xmas. St Cyril came bearing ... niks

SA deserves its own, new poem of yuletide cheer

Columnist


’Twas a fortnight ’til Christmas, and all through the house
Politicians were stirring, pimping deals for their spouse.
The stockings were hung by the chimney with care,
Hoping a tender would end up in there.
The children were nested all snug in the dark
(The lights had gone off, thanks to Megawatt Park.)
And as we sat reading some grim news reports,
And some checked the date on their British passports
Out in the dark there arose such a ruckus
We sprang from our beds to witness the fracas.
Some switched on the telly, some went straight to Twitter,
To see if the country had gone down the shitter.
(Some thought it was just a publicity stunt
By Andile or Julius or some other chap)
And what did we see, lit up by the moon?
A sleigh, barely flying, dragging dozens of goons,
With a tired old driver, all hunched like a squirrel
And we knew in a moment he must be St Cyril.
Wheezing and coughing and grumbling they came,
And he sighed and he shuddered and called them by name:
“Now, Ace Magashule and David Mabuza!
“Now, Bathabile, you insufferable loser!
“On, Collen Maine and Jessie Duarte
“And everyone else who’s broken the party!
“Keep up, Nomvula and your miserable band
“Who cheered when you said you’d pick up the rand!”
He gave a great shudder and looked very tired.
“If only,” he murmured, “I could see you all fired.
“How grand it would be to be rid of the lot,
“You hustlers and grifters, spreading your rot.
“But I can’t drop the axe: you’ve got too much vooma
“Since you threw in your lot with a certain J Zuma.”
“What’s that?” asked Mabuza, just back from the Kremlin.
“Nothing,” whispered Cyril, “you poisonous gremlin.”
“I heard that!” yelled DD, and Cyril, affrighted,
Said, “Comrade, rest assured, the party’s united.”
“That’s more like it,” said DD and grinned.
“We’d hate to recall you after you give us the win.”
Then Cyril paused and fixed a stern gaze
On the smouldering ruin of SA Airways.
“Why are you still a thing?” we heard him cry out.
“For heaven’s sake, people! Another bailout?
“What are you burning in those damned jet engines?
“The fermenting eggs of endangered penguins?
“Can’t you see how the people already resent
“Their taxes airlifting the one percent?
“And Eskom!” he yelled, “You’re like a damned crèche
“Ever since you got annexed by Uttar Pradesh!
“I know it was tough, it’s hard being a crony
“Of Ajay and Atul and don’t forget Tony.
“But the Guptas are gone and there’s plenty of coal!
“Just how many lorry-loads could have been stolen?”
“Well if you’d only go nuclear,” retorted Mabuza
But Cyril cut short Vlad Putin’s new schmoozer:
“I don’t want to be rude. I’m not trying to be funny,
“But David, dear David, we don’t have the money.
It might be safe, it might even be apt, dear,
But they money’s all vanished thanks to state capture.”
And then in a twinkling we heard on the ceiling
The grinding and groaning of an economy reeling.
And as we agreed it was all clear as mud
Down the chimney came Cyril with an echoing thud.
He was covered in poo from his head to his foot,
And his legacy tarnished with ashes and soot.
A sack of Zuma’s failures were strapped to his back,
And he looked somewhat desperate as he opened his pack.
His eyes – how tired they looked! So glassy and dreary!
How grim his demeanour, how sad and how weary!
When he’d first been elected he’d gone for a jog;
Now he could scarcely crawl over a log.
He spoke not a word but for one exclamation
About something to do with expropriation.
He tried to sound jolly but started to stall,
And fell back to promising “A Better Life for All!”
Then back up the chimney St Cyril did edge
And as he subsided back onto his sledge
We all heard him mutter with a gloomy inflection,
“OK, you bastards, let’s just get to the election.”
And I think he said, as they flew out of sight,
“Holy shitballs but politics is shite …”

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