Written in response to an article inTribune by Cassandra that was very critical of New Labour
Spearheaded by a power-hungry demi-god
Who’s surrounded by acolytic henchmen
And media-manic crumplies,
Followed by PC’dy little Noddy Mandelclones,
Steadfastly steered by sleazy spin-doctors
In a completely New direction,
Away from me and far from my politics.
My dilemma! Do I remain,
Suffering the slings and arrows of alienation,
Struggling, constipated by futile motions
And multi-directional points of order,
In Marxian hope of moving change from within,
Or take arms against a worm-can of Liberals
And by exposing, end them?
Politically to die, to sleep,
Perchance to dream?
Aye, there’s the rub,
For dreams in bed are validated,
Outside the bed they’re cold and pointless,
Heedless, needless nightmares
That lack companion comforts.
New Labour’s bed has squeaky clean, new sheets,
As cold as clothes-line linen,
The duvet cover, printed with pink roses,
Loosely holds assorted stuff together,
But the mattress is stuffed with old-style principles,
And the pillows with compassion,
And I have more True than New bedfellows!
Lets huddle together for warmth, Cassandra.
Lynne Joyce © 31-1-1997