Looking back I see how often I predicted it,
a blazing crash with flames that reach into
the Tories tightest dreams. A teary wake &
silhouettes of gloom invoked as crudités in
place of cupid humbleness. The arrant cries
I hear for shame refuting rightly earned and
tame dismissal by the hooded faces, making
lame excuses in a litany of vacant blame.
For sure you’ll rise again, phoenix from the
ashes of defeat – a calloused corpse of old
ideas dressed sweet in coddling clothes, a
gaudy show of innocence impeached; and
in the breach of confidence you’ll seek the
faithful once again to sing in toxic phrase.
© 26 November 2007, I. D. Carswell