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The mortgage broker’s night before Christmas

It was the night before Christmas, when all through the house,
Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse.
The M&S stockings were hung by the chimney with care,
In the hope that Santa Claus soon would be there.

The children were nestled all snug in their beds,
While visions of Xboxes and Wiis danced in their heads.
And mum sozzled by gin put her head in my lap,
As we settled our brains for a long winter’s nap.

When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter,
I sprang from the bed to see what was the matter.
Away to the window I flew like a flash,
Tore open the Ikea curtains and threw up the vinyl sash.

The moon on the breast of the new-fallen snow,
Gave the lustre of mid-day to objects below.
When, what to my wondering eyes should I see,
But a sleigh pulled by old suited men just like me.

With a middle-aged driver, so young and quick,
I thought at first that it must be St Nick.
To my horror instead who should it be,
But Prime Minister David Cameron – how I wanted to flee.

Eight of his coalition cabinet pulled his sleigh,
The upper class crew howled with a posh bray.
Quick as a flash down they came,
And he whistled and shouted and called them by name.

“Now Cable! Now, Clegg! Now, Gove and Maude!
On, Clarke! On, Shapps! on Pickles and Hague!
To the top of the porch! To the top of the wall!
Now dash away! Dash away! Dash away all!”

As dry leaves that before the wild hurricane fly,
When they meet with an obstacle, mount to the sky.
So up to the top of the house the coalition flew,
But the sleigh had no toys, and that went for Cameron too.

A loud clang and a bash I heard upon the roof,
And the thump of nine old MPs, not one of them a youth.
As I drew in my head and was turning around,
Down the chimney Cameron came with a bound.

He was dressed all in fur, from his head to his foot,
And his clothes were all tarnished with ashes and soot.
An empty sack he flung straight from his back,
He looked like a burglar just opening his pack.

With a smile that twinkled like a star in the night,
He started to lift each present clean out of sight.
All the bells on the tree started to sing,
As he chucked each gift into his bag with a fling.

His eyes were dark and his quiffed hair was scary,
His cheeks were like roses, his nose a poisoned berry.
His droll little mouth was in a permanent state of surprise,
And his great pudgy chin was greasy like an old plate of fries.

The stump of a pencil he held tight in his teeth,
He chuckled at a card calling for global peace.
And a large black wallet was slung around his belly,
That shook when he laughed, like a bowlful of jelly.

He was chubby and plump, a right posh old elf,
And I screamed when I saw him, in spite of myself.
A wink of his eye and a twist of his head,
Soon let me know that I had everything to dread.

He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work,
And emptied all the stockings, then turned with a jerk.
I jumped in front of him as the last present went into his bag,
And screamed, “You’re not Santa Claus – have you gone mad?”

“I know how this looks,” started he to splutter,
While he gripped his heart as if he’d just had a flutter.
He dropped his bulging bag down on the hearth,
And flopped on to our couch like he was going to give birth.

Visibly shaken, I was taken aback,
I tried to retreat but fell over Cameron’s sack.
“But it’s Christmas,” cried I, “it’s a time for giving,
“For remembering those past and being kind to the living.”

“You’re a fool, man,” scoffed Cameron. “Giving? Oh, please,
“Nothing’s left – Labour squandered it on housing benefit fees.
“That’s when I came up with this latest plan,
“Tax the presents of the young- come on, you know it makes sense man.”

“If you thought this all through,” said he, “then it’s perfectly fair,”
As he brushed tinsel and pine needles out from his hair.
“The deficit is massive as everyone knows,
“This is just a precautionary measure to keep everyone on their toes.”

“By taking presents from the young in their prime,
“I’m hoping this will ensure there’s no long-term whine.
“By selling all their Wiis and Barbies, quite simply,
“I’m hoping that we’ll save a massive 1.5% of GDP.”

“Fairness is at the heart of this Xmas measure,
“A tax on all, but it gives me no pleasure.
“I told Santa to stand down, just for once on his night,
“I’m sorry I woke you, I hope you didn’t have a fright.”

And laying his finger aside of his nose,
And giving a nod, up the chimney he rose.
So quickly did I scramble up behind this bogus St Nick,
That I burst on to the roof with a violent head flick.

On that wind-swept roof the coalition was in reins,
Pawing and moaning from their physical pains.
Cameron went round and gave them each a pat,
“Lads this is working,” said he, “my sack’s already fat.”

“You won’t get away with this,” I called out with a holler,
“You’ve done nothing to help mortgage brokers, just a lot of bother.
“The FSA infects the market like a nasty germ,
“Without a working mortgage market, your mob won’t last another term.”

Cameron clicked his fingers, his face darkened the colour of tar,
“Yes I’ve heard all about this so-called MMR,
“My housing minister has ensured the regulator gets some flack.”
As he flicked his whip at Shapps with an almighty crack.

“But we’ve no idea how a future housing or mortgage market should look,
“All I know is it’s not bringing much into my tax book.
“Finance is flakey,” wailed he, “building is low,
“Frankly I’m happy to just go with the flow.”

“But hopefully these gifts will plug our country’s gap,
“After the mess Labour left, I’m just giving everyone a slap.”
So I chucked a snowball right into his face,
“You need to cool off Cameron,” said I, “this is a disgrace.”

I wailed, “We need finance to get the country back on track,
“Not stealing presents from children inside your giant sack.”
With his hand on his hips and his face so cross,
Cameron trudged towards me fuming, his mouth starting to froth.

“Look here you,” said he, “there’s no point being so melodramatic,
“We’re getting rid of the FSA – don’t you think that’s fantastic?
“Mortgage lending will be flat next year, just take it like a man,
“At least house prices are stable and not down the can.”

With that he sprang to his sleigh and gave his team a whistle,
And away they all flew like the down of a thistle.
But I heard him exclaim, before he rode out of sight,
“Happy Christmas to all and to all a good night!”



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