More FM host Gary McCormick struggled to keep the tears at bay as he read out a poem he wrote about the 2011 Christchurch earthquake that killed 185 people.
McCormick's poem, entitled '22.2.11', recalls both the September earthquake that happened in the middle of the night, along with the devastating and deadly February quake that followed it.
The poem refers to the natural disaster as a "miserable low-life bastard" that "crawled into town on its spineless spine" and a "snake that lived in the crack of the earth".
"You held us down on the jagged ground, you shook the streets and the city buildings, ripped the spire from the cathedral; all that man had made, you used to batter us," the words continued.
The broadcaster became emotional as he reached the end of his poem - his voice wavering as he read the last few lines.
It's not the first time McCormick has immortalised a tragic day for New Zealand in poetry. On the 10th anniversary of the Pike River tragedy last year, he read his poem 'Seventeen' - dedicated to Joseph Ray Dunbar who died shortly after landing his first job at the mine.
'22.2.11' by Gary McCormick:
You miserable lowlife bastard
We saw you on the fourth of September
Crawling into town on your spineless spine
Giving us a flick, looking us over
An earthquake straight from the Yellow Pages
You know the drill, the torch, the batteries, the bottles of water
In September you were only the piano player
Tinkling the ivories, thin moustache, checking us out, eyeing the women on the dance floor
My you waited. You held your venomous tongue in check
A snake that lived in a crack in the earth
All black coils and shining musculature
I saw you whip up a blind alley full of hatred and dark breath
Grim clouds could only pity us.
You held us down on the jagged ground.
You shook the streets and the city buildings, ripped the spire from the Cathedral
All that man had made, you used to batter us
And all those poor people, the tourists taking photographs
Babies taken in pairs, the hikers in the hills, the ones buried beneath us still
You miserable bastard of a thing
The time has come, said the drummer to the drum,
When I can make no sense of it.
