The Speaker of The Commons By Patrick Henry

Mick Martyr, a Clyde worker, worth his metal, Falls on his sword, they carry for State Opening. Rows rage on MPs, on two home loans, two jags, Two lav. seats, two blue films, two mistresses, To show the masses, who now their master is; Two turtle-doves, to bill and coo, in their cote, To house the ducks, spare no expense; to float Two grand to dredge dead foes from the moat. One grabs the mace, as if police spray to fight riot. The real cops come and collar all the lot. The top ten lined up to come though next Speaker, Spin their records to climb up the charts. In their number are: five 'Please Sirs'; plus two school ma'ams; One shrill idealist; one sole Coloured; one maverick. Choices come odd. Hartlepool would pick a ship's monkey. One mad Roman ruler chose his horse. The Speaker's clobber suggested a transvestite. But it came too late to book Danny La Rue's act.

Crowds hung on, as when white smoke from the Vatican, Signalled an old guy arose to save our souls; Who can clean the stables, like Hercules: The name of Steptoe's horse, fit to cart the scrap. Sir George sounded the patron saint, our land pines for: Eton, The Guards, the Palace; knows how to tilt a cup of tea. Bercow sounds a mix of two odd separate beasts: The Monday Club, immigrant-hating: a bad start For a go-ahead, traversing the whole Tory Party, From A to B: Aristo or Bright Boy: broad as it gets. His lot against him? Is my enemy's enemy, my friend? Narking two hundred of his mates? No unity candidate. MPs don't run the land. They hold to account Admins who do. They're worth no higher pay. They're umpires. The match referee to watch them: The Speaker. We struggle to trust in his say.

Copyright ©2009  Patrick Henry

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