Ann - of all the wise savants, a distressed lady might consult,
The regenerated cockroach seems a masterly result;
With antennae all aquiver, to tell flatulence from air,
So the bat-shit for May’s ‘Brexit’ is a surfeit to compare
With all deadly plagues before it
And the doggerel penned for it
Is an order of ordure past repair.
If you seek a dodgy ducker, May’s flight from the CPS
Makes most bankers look flat-footed, as they plan their own egress
From a London turned provincial, flogged to oligarchs whose purse
Funded last election’s buses, now more like the party’s hearse.
So… despite her cruel passion,
As a high-end heel for fashion,
Having collars felt by coppers could be worse.
She a leader for whom leadership means leaving out debate,
A parliamentary would-be Queen, in drag as Henry eight,
For she finds the Commons common, but would lord it in the Lords,
With tautologies quite sneering, and non-answers like records.
When Scotland’s MPs make her squirm
She fears their voters will confirm -
It’s her snap-poll snaps the Union afterwards.
While her kingdom's still united, let’s concoct a deadly plot
And combine the sense of millions to show millionaires what’s what,
For the ‘Brexiteers’, quite brainless, are spread over every seat,
So keep our voting tactical and we’ll hand them their defeat.
‘Euromania’s’ still the saner;
Let June show that May is vainer
And her Tory ‘Faragistas’ are effete.
'Tis April, but there's talk of booting May;
Though she's convinced that she'll survive the day
That's scheduled to occur in early June.
Will she prevail, or will her party swoon?
I have no clue, but I can still remember
How Yankeeland was Trumped in cold November
And though we now are warming up to summer
The Leftists here persist in whining "bummer".
Be you a cynic or a true believer,
Elections can create a torrid fever
Which contradicts all logic, rhyme, and reason;
But human folly's never out of season.
Shoot me your talking points, and I'll concede 'em.
Where's poor old Colley Cibber when you need him?
Oh dear, it looks as if I've jumped right in.
Good thing I've got my tonic, and my gin.
(I didn't think I'd do it, but I've done it.
I wonder, can I stretch this to a sonnet?)
Poor Colley Cibber, once a man of passion,
Is now both out of life and out of fashion.
Yet it is meet that we should be forgiving,
Since he beseeched us, "pardon me for living".
Pardon me, Ann, and thank you for your grace.
That was an inside joke for Nigel Mace,
With whom I spoke of Pope, and poor old Colley.
But now the jest is outside, and how jolly!
(At least that's what I think Whitworth might write,
Should he come join us in our flyte tonight.)
Oh, for pity's sake....
Your list of what you hate about the Tories
is full of public schools and posh and toffs.
Your sneering tone of envy seldom varies,
riffing on fat cats, handouts, snouts and troughs.
Remember all those gasps of admiration
when old Mujica had his hour of fame?
Remember how you wished this failing nation
could find one man whose outlook was the same?
Someone who didn’t fiddle his expenses,
someone who rode a bike and went by train,
someone who’d even out the people’s chances
and make this country wonderful again.
An honest man and not a Tory bastard,
somebody who would listen and was kind…
But look! Your face is wrinkling like a custard
as you guess who it is I have in mind.
Your upper lip is creeping up your nostril
and you’ve reverted to your classic sneer –
“I didn’t mean that sad old hippie wastrel”
Your double standard couldn’t be more clear.
“I can’t be doing with that scruffy bleeder;
he’s not the man we need and that is flat.”
You say he’s not equipped to be a leader,
but I would follow somebody like that.
Is it of 'General's alone the Muse dare speak?
What of the 'Council' band we chose last week?
I think that when democracy's in view,
The nearer is the clearer - and more true.
The paths we pace and roads we drive each day
Reflect neglect or duty; bills we pay.
More readily we bring accounts to roost
Of local folk whom to their posts we boost
Than of elected government far off,
However high and mighty (ahem, cough).
Let not Theresa or arbeiter Ruth
Defraud you of this basic civic truth:
Electing of a councillor is best
Done for their deeds, not party-boss behest.
So Bah! to Brexit - even Indy, too -
In lieu of bins; and pests who leave dog-poo;
And swimming-baths; and shops that empty lie,
While homes need building now - not by-and-by,
Our raters, planners, zoners make the call:
Quotidian the impacts of Town Hall.
And only those who show their worth near home
I'll rate as worthy to more widely roam,
To exercise dominion of state;
Let poo-bahs profitable prove, not prate.
Let's let someone else have a go...
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