Bellwether-by-Sea
The Tories have already been--
you missed the Chancellor of the Exchequer
he was down the road--kneading dough in Pizza Express
oh, and the Prime Minister has already delivered the post,
while you were still buttering your toast--
and the Home Secretary, what’s-her-name,
was last seen assisting with a blow-dry
in ‘Off Yer Head’--
Parliamentary day-trippers parachuted in
playing at being ordinary folk,
hopeful of getting votes.
We are a bellwether constituency by the sea,
where the mad castrated ram,
Floreat Hova,
picks its way over potholes and pavement cracks,
and barges into blind cul-de-sacs,
its little bell ringing so you know
where it’s at and swing-o-meters
can be duly calibrated
along with squeaky weather vanes, pointing
in all directions.
Fat cat bottoms
sit uneasily on marginal seats,
musical chairs up for grabs
in the time it takes to wipe noses on sleeves--
that reminds me--where are the Greens?
that reminds me--where are the Greens?
Not heard a peep--
I fear they may have withered away on the vegetable patch
where the irate bin man has parked his lorry.
As for Labour, the activists can be
seen night and day tweeting en masse like
hungry baby birds in the bright
red nesting box.
The reviled Lib-Dems have traipsed west
in hair-shirts, socks and sandals
and all they can rustle up is a moth-eaten carpetbagger,
while miracles of miracles,
in shambles
a Monster Raving Looney candidate--he gets
my vote. Quick, count the ballot papers
before they are fed to the goats--