The Parliament of Fouls, or The Foulest of Parliaments. Being an indictment of the Politickal Classes &c. The Prologue
A writer looking at the coming Poll Might feel despair. But we (Byronically Inspired) associates of St Edmund Hall Have made a Canto, a bionically Collaborative affair, sick in our soul, Expressing our disgust laconically. With candidates becoming so moronic No wonder that our comments are sardonic.
The Byronic Verses: The Chorus: Again it's nigh the cycle draws around, And tricksters' faces flicker in the halflight. Again the fairground's rolling into town All starry eyed with promises and foresight; And whitewashed cheeks adorn a leering clown And palms and silver cross by shade of midnight. And later in the empty light of morning A samey view across the landscape's dawning. The sick and disabled: The UK needs a leader: that is clear. Last time it was Condemned to take a Blue one, But that mistake has cost the country dear; And now the time has come to find a new one Who can heal the Tories' savage cuts, and steer A juster course. Another way, a true one Quickly found, for it would be a Pity To leave the people governed by the City. The working man: We don't still want leaders, that's evident, Like the ones we have now, who smarm and lie, And we don't want false smiles dipped in Steradent. What we do want is sensible policy: From sharing our riches (hoarded, unspent) To accountable actions, transparency; And time in jail for the powerful, the rich When they do things that make the rest of us retch.