T’was the week before Christmas

And all through the House

No person was stirring, not even a mouse.

The files all secured, the phones on ‘transfer’

As the last pollies ran for a Commonwealth car.

The cleaners had come and the marble floors gleam

The tall Christmas tree is a fairy tale dream.

But no one’s around, to admire or surmise

But some tourists inquiring where Questacon lies.