'Twas the night before Christmas, and all through Parliament House,
Not a pollie was stirring, 'cept Abbott: for a run he was out.
Assistants were knackered, asleep on the ground,
They'd worked through the night so a deal could be found.
MPs were snoozing, in worn leather chairs,
After scouring the Hansard in hopes the answer was there.
Turnbull dreamed of ways to stall NBN legislation,
And Gillard was picking colours for her coronation.
When up on the lawn there arose such a clatter,
Even Garrett sprang from his chair to see what was the matter.
Away to the windows they ran like a flash,
Opened the blinds and looked out, aghast.
The moon glinting sweetly off Lake Burley Griffin,
Made the lenses of the media's cameras glisten.
And what in front of their wondering eyes should glide,
But a sleigh with eight reindeer, 'Next-G' down the side.
And a little old driver, so cheeky and mellow,
They knew in a moment it must be Sol Trujillo.
More rapid than furphies his insults they came,
And he whistled and shouted, and called them by name.
"Now, Windsor! Now, Bandt! Now Lundy, you vixen!
On, Ludlam! On, Fielding! Xenophon, you tricked 'em!
It's Christmas Eve and you're all still here stuck —
I said when I left that you all could get ... nicked!
Then over the rooftops his reindeer they flew,
With a sleigh full of dongles, and T-Boxes too.
There came the sound of rumblings as they fell on the roof,
Like that of the punters who were still waiting for proof ...
That the NBN was real, just like Santa Claus,
Then he entered the room, as if expecting applause.
He was dressed in Hugo Boss, from his head to his toes,
With a bundle marked "suckers" as big as his nose.
And he laughed very loudly as he opened his pack,
Using 3G for pay TV was like a nationwide DDoS attack.
His eyes — how they twinkled! His hair, how slicked back!
But of course he was smiling — his $20 mil came without tax.
His droll little mouth was drawn up like a bow,
And the ends of his moustache, were trimmed just so.
The arms of his sunnies he held in his teeth,
That stinking-rich smell hung on him like a wreath.
"I told you", he said, as he walked into the room,
"That messing with Telstra would be to your doom.
You've broken up Telstra, destroyed competition,
And left all the shareholders in a terrible position."
"People don't care about prices and features,
They just want slick mobiles that work on the beaches.
"What you're spending on fibre would be better used
To buy every Aussie a pair of sand shoes."
He spoke no more words, pulled the cinch on his sack,
Jumped off the table, and ran out the back.
He sprang to his sleigh, gave the finger to Rudd,
And flew on away, leaving them to their FUD.
And they heard him exclaim, as he flew out of sight,
"Happy Foxmas to all; just build the damned thing right!"
With all due apologies to Clement Clarke Moore. Have a wonderful Christmas holiday and here's to happiness, health and broadband for all in 2011 and beyond.