Lord Lucifer

With apologies to Sylvia Plath and 'Lady Lazarus'

I have won it again.
One year in every five
I manage it --

A sort of walking disaster, my voters
Dumber than Gordon Brown,
My wife by my side --

A touch of glam.
My face a frozen, grinning
'I CARE' mask.

Fold the ballot paper
O my constituents.
Do I impress? --

The suits, the ties, the rousing, memorable speeches?
The false cheer
Will vanish in a day.

Soon, soon the things
The sick prick promised
Will be forgotten

And I a so-called Christian.
I am only Tony Blair
And like Maggie I have eleven years to rule.

This is Term Number Three.
What a laugh
To mess up Britain.

What a million mistakes.
The cheering, clapping crowd
Shoves in to see

Me get out of my limo --
The big I AM.
Gentlemen, ladies

Here are my children,
My friends.
I may be a lying creep,

Nevertheless, I am the same identical man.
The first time it happened I was amazed.
It was a landslide.

The second time I meant
To win again and stay in power.
I rocked with laughter

Like a maniac.
They had to vote and vote
And cover me with sticky kisses.

Ruling
Is an art, like everything else.
I do it exceptionally badly.

I do it so it feels like hell [for you]
I do it so it feels funny [for me]
I guess you could say I'm a b*****d.

It's easy enough to do it in England,
It's not so easy to do it in Scotland.
It's the inevitable

Triumph the next day,
In the same place, to the same cameras, the same stupid
Ecstatic shout:

'Hurrah Tony!'
That knocks me out.
There is a charge

For living in my country, there is a charge
for breathing in my air --
It is really polluted.

And there is a charge, a very large charge
For a bus or a train
Or a parking place

Or a house or some food or some clothes.
So, so, you idiots.
So, you losers.

I am your Prime Minister.
I am your Saviour.
The pure sensitive man

That rules your world.
I walk and talk.
Do not think I care about your concerns.

Rubbish, rubbish --
You look and rummage.
Rotting food, cigarette ends, there is nothing there --

An old banana
A half-empty can
A mouldy sandwich.

You idiots, you losers
Beware
Beware.

Out of Downing Street
I emerge with my receding hair --
And I only did this for a dare.

© Morney Wilson