Saturday, June 25, 2016

John Brexitman

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.

1 comment:

dissertation professional writers said...

Sorry but couldn't understand if it is some poetry or you narrated your experience in words. Can you please elaborate it for us, thanks