Doorstep pounding, leaflet hounding.
Exhortation at the hustings.
Paint on the rictus smile
and shake the hand that feeds you.
And there are no lies, just shrugs and sighs,
the truth and consequence denied,
As the pack bows down before the fox,
with one small cross in one small box.

And Oh! The power that cross we give.
The power of who should die or live.
In some remote and troubled land;
untouched, unsullied by our hand.
A power to wreak a vengeance pure.
Seek out a cause; effect the cure.
The lives not counted, just the cost.
No votes for any battle lost.

Then by remote control we share.
Shake our heads, pretend to care.
But the biggest worry is by far,
how much it costs to fill the car.
And though the promise was no lies,
our tax is ever on the rise.
The mortgage up, gone through the roof.
The consequence; served by the truth.

Yet blindly, blinkered, I am led.
The blue? the yellow? or the red?
To mark my cross, then bear the loss,
of knowing they never give a toss.
And I hate those greedy, selfish snouts,
in self absorbing greedy troughs.
Well fed, grey suited killer Shark.
Their governance a secret art.

'Tis the pack bowed down before the fox,
with one small cross in one small box......