Free me from the grind
of ‘strong and stable leadership’,
and from the organist’s
‘coalition of chaos’;

loosen these ties
of spin-doctored lines,
and let the monkeys dance
to an original lie.

That pond of politics,
where amphibians crawl,
over arched backs
to gorge in the pool,

feeding, growing,
on the bottom-fat crud,
to rise from the Commons,
to ascend as a Lord.

To claim an allowance,
deigned for the rich,
to age into bitterness,
in the House of Old Gits.

To be buried in a churchyard,
“not some Commoner’s grave”,
to die as Lord Muck,
not labelled a knave.