Shakespearian Speakers Corner

 

Fair maidens, noble sirs I bid thee tarry a while.

Prithee remove cloth, that dust cover thyne ears,

and keep’st thyne portals of sleep awakened

that thou may heed my chronicle.

For mine is a winter’s tale,

thats brought nought but discontent,

to kindred spirits of this peopled land.

Elected emissaries of her majesty,

dust set sail and pillage’d our coffers,

down to our last golden coin.

Highwaymen of parliament, who hast brought,

heavy burden upon the poor,

sit on falsely claimed expenses.

These cursed civil servants, knee deep in honey,

utter forth, in lazy yawning drone,

half truths from political stage that are much ado about nothing.

I would’st forswear I should’st cast them at yonder Globe.

Their scripts sold from papers stand, in headlines bold,

with tales of endeavours poured from political streams.

Fables from each political hew told by a school of crows,

hoarse , squabbling, unable to answer our questions true.

Red, yellow, blue, or green merge under political battlement

into a serpent stream of ‘sewerage’ brown.

Keep’st thyne eyes there open, to extent full

on these Lords with ghostly tax return

for this kingdom, more kingnondom.

Who funds our parties, advantages procure

Are all political parties an orgasmic fake?

Down furrows of recession we peasants fall,

whilst those bankers, who did’st make a pigs ear,

escape with silken pockets full.

International ‘Loan shark’ fills  leaking government coffers

to fill the gaps in economic planks.

Who tells us to borrow then, live within our means,

as the bailiff wolf, howls at door.

Gaps in our planks, no tar can fill,

boat sinks into realities bosom,

taking cold comfort of employments hammock.

Double standards resident of No 10,

I pray thee will join me, in electoral tides,

a begger to  hand outs from a Britain, once great.

Sucker thy counsel still, answer question straight,

not a merry dance round boxers ring.

I’ll spare thee a cup o’ tea, would be emisary of the queen,

quench thy thirst, amongst political, nay electoral swill.

Pray present thy thesis full of childish bicker,

my angst dust grow reading scripts with thin spine,

a cauldren of half truths, stirred by creatures from dreams dark shaddow. 

Is it naught but crosses, that would’st see this vote mine

send political future into the company of a gallow?

VOTE, VOTE, VOTE FOR ............................. WHO?

 

© Philip Golding 06/04/10