Labour, who cannot help but make
Of even simple things, hard work,
Funambulates barefoot on a heated rope
In fashioned panic,
Leaning on half-hearted visions
And repeating punchlines
From the Coalition’s dirty jokes,
Sent manic with intent to out-tough the Tories.
The Cons, who cannot help but make
Of even well-known things, revisions,
Buff a tarnished, antiquated glory
Reeking of imperious control,
Extolling values and what-have-yous
To compete with Ukeep’s sentimental story telling.
All secondhand salesmen and gamblers
Selling snake oil to the masses
Reinforcing class by old and new.
His Master’s Voice intones the purple haze
Until their colours verge upon one hue…