The After-Poll

When it’s all over at the count,
When the officer has returned,
When the make-up of the new House is discerned,
When the questions that are paramount
Are answered with an X,
When the voter’s blade has swung on many necks –
As the ship of state is sailing on,
Is the wheel turned left or right ?
Is the outlook grey, or is the morning bright ?
Just how new is the new dawn –
Is it rosy, is the sky still blue ?
Who are we now, and where are we heading to ?

Meet the New Boss

Remember back at election time
When I said how unimpressed I was ?
“He’s just a Tory without the grime -”
I said, “who’s cool with corp’rate crime.
A smoother, shinier, twist-of-lime,
But a Tory still, not worth this buzz.”
Well, I want to let you know
That I told you so, I told you so.

He’ll disappoint with his PFIs,
As he sells his soul and the NHS.
He’ll talk of hope and tell us lies,
While slashing budgets down to size,
Then starting wars and choking skies,
While caving to the right-wing press.
It needn’t be, but here we go –
I told you so, I told you so.

We all want to ditch the Tories, sure,
But why then elect another one ?
It’s not that he’s not sufficiently pure,
That causes me to resist his lure,
But that he’s much more disease than cure –
A bully with a grudge and no sense of fun.
I hate to say, but have to crow –
I told you so, I told you so.

When the country’s crying out for change,
He gave us a dollop of as-you-were.
Sure, he was better than the rabid mange
Of the previous lot, that’s hardly strange –
But he just didn’t have the spine or range
For the shifting world that needed a stir.
Forgive if my frustrations show,
But I told you so, I told you so.

First Past The Post

Roll up for the Chiltern Hundreds,
Try to catch the gerrymander,
Ev’ry safe constituency’s
Always worth a gander.
Fetch the rosette off the lamppost
And strap-on your parachute
The borough may be rotten,
But the bribes are full of loot.
Then off to the Lords you toddle
With your handshake dipped in gold,
They’ll barely even notice you
In sleepy Sarum Old.

Rosetta

She knocked on my door in hustings season,
To canvas support for her tribe –
Her eyes were so full of enthusiasm,
She held such a positive vibe.
She briefly ran down some policy bullets,
And proffered a leaflet or two –
For sixty seconds, I stood transfixed
As she painted a world anew.
My cynicism was ducking for cover,
My probing questions were lacking flesh
As she sparked a fire for change, any change –
Maybe hers, maybe others’, but something fresh.
And then she was gone to my neighbour’s door,
And I slowly recovered myself,
As I shuffled back into my hallway,
And dropped her flyers unread on the shelf.

Gotcha Gawkers

Hypocrisy should never be in season,
And schadenfreude is no excuse
I don’t care how self-righteous the reason,
I don’t care how ironic the noose.
Don’t tell me that they had it coming
As you jettison all your principles.
Why the rush to be gutter-slumming ?
Why the lies to convince the fools ?
There is never a right time to welcome sleaze,
And the means are never absolved by the ends.
If I hate such use from my enemies,
Then I hate it so much more from my friends.