A lobby card from the 1947 Hollywood adaptation of An Ideal Husband, artist unknown.
An Ideal Crony
Sir Robert Chiltern, Bart – A plummy, chummy, bleeding heart, Who made some loot insider trading – Suddenly his star is fading When extorted by a high-class tart.
What ho !, his chums in high-up places Shall protect him from disgraces – Don’t let on, don’t make a fuss, For don’t you know he’s one of us ? So stiffen up the lips on both his faces.
So what, a sacred trust was sold ? We’d do the same for thirty gold ! So call the playwrite with the sharp wit, Sweep it all beneath the carpet – No need that the voting oiks be told…
Rock and roll, all voters ! Staunch and floaters, poor and wealthy – To the fuss-and-tussle hustings jamboree ! Bring the kids and bring the dogs, Let’s throng with hacks from press and blogs To jeer the speeches, snap the selfies, Make them promise jam for tea – Then talk with wonks and rebel Scots, And mix with toffs and flat-capped Trots. Let’s join the jostle and bus the bustle, And get on down to the hustings hustle.
But it’s never like that these days. Our candidates are scrambled through A mesh of endless screens, That changes all the red to blue And filters out the golds and greens Till all that’s left are greys. They rarely need to meet the public, Rarely let us have our say – There’s just too many unelected journos in the way !
No wonder disillusionment is growing – But no ! That’s what they want of us ! We mustn’t be intimidated by the charging battle-bus. Don’t be ashamed of floating or don’t-knowing, Thoughtful contemplation never was a crime – Just make sure that you make it to the booth on time ! For I don’t care who gets your vote, As long as someone gets your vote – Be they protest, status quo, or loony-fringers. Don’t buy their apathetic spin, Or else we let the cynics win – A can’t-be-arsed electorate of impotents and whingers.
For ours is the power, ours the law, My fellow voters ! We aren’t just humble peasants stood in awe Before our lords – We’re citizens – not subjects, Nor statistics, blips or quotas – We’re individual voters, And not meek amorphous hordes. We’re millions of voices making millions of choices, With our pencils mightier than any swords.
So roll up, you voters ! Shake a leg ! It’s time to give a damn ! With me ! Let’s make the bloody buggers beg – Let’s rock this hustings jamboree !
I make the sun rise. I control fate. To me the credit for all that is great. Know that my worth is a thousand of you, And yet I descended to share what I knew. This world I remade in my image agleam, From antediluvian law and regime – And now ev’ry crisis since my rise to rule, Is legacy still of that tenancy cruel. But I have delivered unto you, my flock, For I’m your All-Knowing, Infallible rock. And I have the Power, the Knowledge, the Plan Of fiscal and social beyond wit of man. Yet do not presume to inquiry my ways, Don’t ponder my motives, don’t question who pays. Just pray for my blessing, and so bring to pass A life for the better in safe Middle-Class.
But they…they…
They make it rainy. They bring you down. They are the Demons who covet my crown. For their ev’ry plan is most evil and wicked – They take all your hopes and your dreams and they stick it And quash your beliefs as they freight them with dread, Then charm you to dream of their visions instead. They promise you ev’rything better their way At just half the price that you currently pay. And, yes, it is true, how their glamours beguile, With pretty predictions and invectious bile – They smear my almighty with heretic slander, With scandal and intrigue and base propaganda. But since I am perfect, we must remain strong – They cannot be right, for I cannot be wrong. For I am your god, your elected divine – It’s never my fault when the sun doesn’t shine.
View of a Hustings in Covent Garden by James Gillray
The Hustings Shuffle
Promises promised, but not to be kept – They know it, we know it, and they know we know – But it must be this way – it is what we expect.
Their promises come and their promises go – We want to believe but we try to resist, And say to ourselves that it’s only a show.
Their policies spin and their arguments twist – We’re warned of the dangers their rivals equate – Then hands must be shaken and babies be kissed.
We try to engage and we try to debate, And try to remember it’s us who’s the boss, Just looking for servants to tend to the state.
They beam out the smiles that they sharpen with floss, They pose for our photos and laugh at our jokes, And feel for our anger and pity our loss.
They tell us and tell us they’re average folks From average backgrounds with average smarts, Who love to get down with us ordin’ry blokes.
Beware their seductions, their flattering arts That promise the world if our trust they may borrow – We give up our votes and they crush our green hearts.
They leave us defiled and they show us no sorrow, They love us today and they jilt us tomorrow.
I wish I could urge you to vote with your hearts, But alas, it’s all just a game – It forces us each to the cynical arts Of tactical voting and blame. Supposing, just for the day, We lost our hate, we lost our fear ? Then, no matter who won, I say The revolution would be here. But until, don’t give them an inch – Let’s make them guess and sweat and pinch, And keep your ballot confidential, Share it only with the pencil. No rosettes and no balloons – And lie, lie, lie to the pollsters’ goons.
All those old signs with dyes on the cheap, That lose all their red in the face of the sun. Once they were young and eager to help – But now they are monochrome, caring for none.
I guess it was the ultraviolet Wore them down with covert light – One-by-one, it breaks their bonds, Until they turn surrender-white.
But the blue signs, they are made diff’rently, They’re made from more costly pigments and paint. Why should they care if the sun’s so strong ?, It bounces away with nary a taint.
For they were cast in ultraviolet, Feeding on its flame and spite – And then make sure that the sun is packed With endless stocks of scorching light.
All those old signs, proud ‘turn left’ signs Now they just point to the right.
These days, I can’t say nothing Till the trolls beneath my bridge Begin their bellyache and huffing At my languer-bloody-widge. Not the swearing… Well, yes, the swearing, But worse – the grammar I’m spewing and tearing And giving a right royal chuffing.
Now typos, sure, my fingers sometimes slip – Though maybe not, I spell as I think best, And damn the wets who need to get a grip, And suss to why we’re unimpressed. Ev’ry hissy, prissy luddite Seems to think they have the right To rule my mother tongue and give me lip.
To ev’ry whinjer of the ritten word, To ev’ry pedant waiting just to pounce, To ev’ry queen with an itch to flounce, To ev’ry bullshitter who’s talking turd: Just who the fuck do you think you are To lecture me what I may say ? To lecture me, a superstar, You constipated popinjay ! These words are mine, and I shall play ! They are my servants, friends and tools, With which to wrench the buggers’ rules.
My life was good on Manor Farm – Just catching rats and lapping milk, And sleeping warm and safe from harm – I had no qualms with Jones’s ilk. Yet revolution saw it scrapped – Ah well, a cat will soon adapt.
I let them give their speeches, And I let them hold their votes, As they banned all booze and breeches, And they argued beets or oats. I snoozed between the awed and rapt, Because a cat can soon adapt.
By hoof and feather, cart and plough, We each must labour, none must shirk – But rodents are our comrades now, So I am out of work. My talents must remain untapped – But hey, a cat shall soon adapt.
Yet I smell blood, and I smell fear, Among the cowed who used to crow. They ought to leave, but still they’re here – For where else can these rebels go ? They’ve made their home, and now they’re trapped. Farewell – a cat must soon adapt.
Yes, I know – adult cats don’t drink milk. Or so the bourgeois would have us believe…
Positive charges And negative spin, Strong verbs and weak verbs With preference baked-in. Group B and Group 2 Subconsciously mocked – Pejorative adjectives, Loaded and cocked. We’re judging the diff’rence From concept to mouth, And neutral assessment Is all heading South.
My thoughts on love and politics Have authored pamphlets by the score – I’ve told them twice and thrice and six, Since days of teenage yore. I’ve made my case and made it strong, I’ve preached and pleaded with the throng, From Tory-shires to Bolsheviks I’ve met them all and all before.
I’ve set the world to rights so long, And still the world continues wrong – There’s no point labouring a fix We both know you’ll ignore. It’s time to sing a diff’rent song, It’s time to bang a diff’rent gong – Or else I’m dreaming just for kicks, And dreaming should be something more…
Rhyming Couplets 