Saturday, June 25, 2016
Enter the wooden voting cubical,
One of three standing in the old Church hall -
Remember Nanny's words upon the landing
To do your best, and be so sensible:
The vote once cast is sacred after all.
Even in pencil it will not be changed
To doubt that is to doubt the entire state.
Even the moderns are not so deranged
As to suggest the turning wheels of fate,
Are clocked back like a duff mileometer
By government men in tweeds or volent checks.
This is the moment twixt Bremain and Brex
Mark just one X against one option there,
Remember how Joan with her yellow hair
Insisted that to vote In was the thing.
Yet Nigel promised that the funds
That we give now to foreign junketting,
Might buy a goodly number of hot buns
To feed the injured in our hospital.
Oh lord the strain of making out who's right
On one side Marx on other Capital,
Or In or Out, or even day or night.
There - I've marked one, should I have marked the other?
Harked to Nigel, Nanny, Joan, or Mother?
It's folded now,
I did vote in, I know,
Or did I? Dear me, how the memory goes.
I don't suppose it matters anyway
What is one vote but dust upon one's shoes
That any spit and polish wipes away.