Poets sits stiffly along the backbench,
Sniffing the cartoonists’ pen-and-ink stench:
(They who complain in quick composition,
Sitting in permanent opposition).
The cartoonists will vote, no scan-tripped whip,
No party lies, or correct-politics,
(My own caricatures, and sketchy past,
Never got close to Mr. Steve Bell’s blast).
Now my rhyme-voice tries to draw out a line,
Which if pitched too loudly sounds like a whine.
The drawn-cast satire: single-frame cartoons,
I fish daily, with my lines of lampoons.