Winning the Defeat

It’s hard, but when we lose,
We have to lose,
We must concede, to start to heal the pain.
It’s madness to refuse
To quit the pews,
When all the others know that we are slain.
We must not blame the news,
Or voters’ views –
We had our chance, we fought a long campaign.

We stand and fall by word-of-mouth,
From Shetland North to Lizard South.
The terms are strict, the seats are leased,
From Dyfed West to Yarmouth East.

We are not who they choose,
They’ve shifted muse,
And telling them they’re wrong is just insane.
We’ll only raise a bruise
Whose pus must ooze –
And we shall never wash away the stain.
The public shall accuse
Our desp’rate ruse –
In ev’ry sense, our protest is in vain.

And left or right, and right or left,
Impugn us all, but not of theft.
And win or lose, and lose or win,
The sun shall rise, the world shall spin.

We have to pay our dues
And lace our shoes,
And let the winning side begin their reign.
It’s hard, but when we lose,
We have to lose,
We have to stop the fight, to fight again.

Ev’ry Winner gets a Free Shave

(In reply to Herblock)

To ev’ry newly elected member,
Let me spruce you up for the Chamber !
To all of you who stood against
The very things I’m fighting for,
To all the new MPs who dream
Of showing immigrants the door,
To all the laws to squeeze the poor,
And all the shills of gutter press,
To all the friends of oil and banks,
And those who got us in this mess,
To all the demagogues of wars:
For all of that, this day is yours.

So step right up !  Come one, come all !
Majorities both great and small !
You sir !  The new-crownded minister !
I see the campaign’s left its mark –
You’re looking rather sinister
With pallor grey and stubble dark.
I’ll take a razor to your chin
And even-out your crooked grin,
And give no cause for dread
As I draw my blade across your throat,
Of a single fleck of red –
For my razor, sir, is not my vote.
So even if you’re not my choice,
You’re still my fellow voters’ voice,
When tallied, said and done.
So go on, sport your freshened face
And show us how to run the place –
This shave’s on me, old son !
But just the one…

Pencil on a String

(Dedicated to all those who do apathy properly)

There’s some who say voting is pointless
But who always register on the rolls
And proudly walk to the place of polls
To add their protest to the tolls.
They take their voting paper
And refuse to make their mark,
(On principal – it’s not some caper or lark)
Then post their unblemished slip in the box
To highlight the lack of a Goldilocks,
Considering the election invalid –
An empty ballot cast for an empty ballot,
With candidates all just the same –
And whoever gets in, well, they’re not to blame.
And if what they say is silence,
Then still, it has to be said
At least they got off of their arses and got out of bed.
They think our nation’s fate, with dread,
Is in the hands of oiks and youths –
And like those pencils in the booths,
Is hanging by a thread.

Noughts & Crosses

Ah, to be young in the lands of the free –
With the whole of your glorious future before you,
And giving no thought what that future may be.
Ah, to be young when the whole world adores you,
With no need to pay us a thought in return.
Enjoy your sweet apathy, ere you must learn.

Ah, to be only a shrug and a sigh,
To be ever-unsullied of needing to know.
You’re glad to be asked, yet you give no reply,
As our ministers come and our generals go.
Your life is for dreaming and dancing and drifting,
And never mind queuing and choosing and sifting.

Ah, to be young on a planet so old,
With its taxes and statutes and loopholes and blame,
Where fraud is rewarded with knighthoods and gold,
And where ev’ryone grumbles and goes on the same.
Ah, to be young and to not give a damn
For the stumps of the candidates promising jam.

Oh, to be agèd and cautious and wise,
In a compromised world with a weather-worn hope –
We’re hypocrites, surely, and all you despise,
As you wash off our greys with your black-and-white soap.
Ah, to be young in these battles we’re waging –
You never get jaded by never engaging.