Don’t Call Me a Blairite Whore

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What is that brick I see in your hand,

is there a message for me

wrapped around its rosy cement mix of metaphors,

intent on grazing my cheek,

shattering frail hopes,

in your eagerness to mark the register with

Kristallnacht thuggery after

paying your three quid?

Why do you worship that old grey man,

mothballs falling from graveyard utterance,

breadcrumbs of wisdom

shed from torn pockets years ago,

agenda sagging–who’d be far happier

hitching a ride in a TARDIS

back to the good old days when

everyone protested in black and white?

I wish he’d shut the gate and just remain

in his lovely front garden,

dead-heading those masquerade roses–

they have more need of him than

this divided realm.

He sees himself as a knight of old,

tied to the saddle of a weary charger

bridle-led by an eminence grise no one wants to name.

And as for his foot-soldiers,

how like a mob they are,

crowding around their dear leader

like battle-thirsty mercenaries

on jobseekers’ allowance,

feeding off his crumpled second-hand rhetoric–

a lukewarm meal for one,

deliveroo’d by a feral cyclist,

in place of loaves and fishes.

As stubborn as an infirm NHS bed-blocker,

but with less excuse–

he is sucking the blood from the young.

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Don’t Call Me a Blairite Whore

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