TOM EATON: An ode to St Cyril
A columnist and poet's take on Santa Ramaphosa's travails
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...
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