I have looked upon the latter
but much prefer the former.
take a letter
to my parliamentary candidate stating unequivocally
that this life’s not the life for me
and could he see a way to see
a brighter
future for me.

But my candidate can oft’ be seen
at Weatherspoons in 
Bethnal Green
supping on a pint of ale
(and then I wonder why I fail)

So it’s down to me
to make a future I can see
the storm clouds brewing.

Chewing on a blade of grass
I pass the hat around.
Opportunities abound and I must leap
to keep another date
with some politician on the make.

The doorbell chimes a memory of better times
the postman brings me several letters
one from ‘Zetters’
(8 draws on the football pool)
I’m off to celebrate.

The parliamentary candidate can kiss my arse
he’s just a fool
and now I’m as rich as Midas
you may find me somewhere by a sea
where I once pinned my dreams upon those flowing streams
just to see if they would float.
but now I’ll buy a boat and sail away
this is my day

And as a postscript I must write:
I’ve never been happy with the man they chose
To represent me behind closed doors
and plan my life.
Now my life is planned atop the ocean’s wave
and so I wave goodbye
don’t cry
I won’t.


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