by David Dumouriez
in response to the announcement of the UK general election.
Election sickness
is on us once more,
with a worse set of symptoms
than ever before.
is on us once more,
with a worse set of symptoms
than ever before.
There’s the hoard of campaigners
who will burst through the gate
intending to give us
the bullshit we hate;
there are more of them still
who will tramp till they bleed
to deliver those leaflets
we don’t want to read.
There’s our constituency member
whose job-losing fears
make him visit these parts
for the first time in years.
There are those who oppose him,
who want what he’s had;
they claim to be better
but they’ll be just as bad.
There are three party leaders
who each boast they’ll win
(though two of them know
that they’ll never get in).
There’s the phony sincerity,
the well-rehearsed lies;
there’s the promise of everything
under the skies.
There’s debating and speeches,
many words are received;
but it’s air and not action,
so there’s nothing achieved.
There are infantile adverts
meant to mask what’s unsound
about the party elites
and the guff they propound.
There’s the media coverage
where, with serious breath,
overpaid people
try to talk us to death.
There’s the collection of ‘experts’
from colleges wide,
who make duff predictions
then run off and hide.
There’s the feeling in voters,
drawn from years in the past,
that the parties betray them
when the votes have been cast.
So discuss all the options—
that won’t tax your jaws—
half think about stirring,
and then stay indoors.
David Dumouriez wouldn't be tempted to blow his own trumpet even if a) he had a trumpet or b) he knew how to play one.
