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.
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