‘Twas the month before Christmas, when all though Facebook
Chateau Diaries superfans were eager to look
Some pages shouted OFFICIAL in their description
While others gained members by a kind of conscription.
The Chatelaine was nestled deep in her bed
While visions of Patrons danced in her head
And mummy in her gloves, bored and trapped
Just hoping her French garden will survive and adapt
When out in the courtyard there arose such a clatter
The Chatelaine awoke to see what was the matter
Away to the balcony she flew like a flash
Tore open the shutters and threw up (the sash)
The moon on the breast of the freshly laid gravel
Gave the lustre of pinkness as the scene did unravel
When what to her infected eye should appear
A camper, a tango dancer and Heineken beer
A curly haired man, covered in sawdust
Muttering softly “To the beach, dog, or bust”
More rapid than peacocks his coursers they came
And he whistled, and whispered, and called them by name
Now DIESEL!, now RUBY!, now SITH! and THOR!
On IAN!, on IAN!, on IAN! and one IAN! more
To the top of the ramparts, to the fountain, all green
Now dash away, dash away, we mustn’t be seen!
The Chatelaine teetered, on balcony’s edge!
She was going to topple and crush a small hedge
With a gasp she felt a weak hand on her waist
“Prince Philip will save me; he’s made such great haste”
The Chatelaine fell back onto her floor
Her Thousand Stars kimono crumpled and tore
And she turned her head to thank her saviour knight
But she only saw Hanni by the dappled moonlight.