The Idiot at the Door

This poem needs context. At the time of writing we have a right-wing government and there is a growing dissatisfaction in the populace about their handling of the economy and their disastrous lack of care for all but the wealthy and corporate supporters that finance them.

This political poem was in response to a friend's reaction to an unexpected visitor - a supporter of the government's local representive, actually polling to see if they could expect her vote. Her views are diametrically opposed but she was so shocked at the audacity of the caller she was unable to summon the vitriol she considered apt.

Having written this, I needed a title. I considered "The Poll Chancer", "Door to Door Failsman", "The Noddy Politic" but decided on a simpler one.

The Idiot at the Door

On Saturday a knock came - a knock upon my door.

I opened it and saw a man - what had he come here for?

He asked a question, one incomprehensible to me

He surely wasn't serious yet he smiled expectantly.

"I represent your MP and we're here to take some notes.

We wondered if, come polling day, will yours be 'mongst our votes?"

As gobsmacked as I was I barely managed a reply.

A "no" seemed insufficient, but enough. He said, "goodbye."

But afterwards, upon this incongruity, I mused:

Was it shock at their stupidity? Such words I could have used!

I'd rather swallow broken glass,

or tattoo Boris on my ass,

Let spiders lay eggs in my ears,

Have pus infuse my hourly beers,

Run naked through the flames of hell,

Endure a burning methane smell

from dragons eating diseased meat,

Chew fungal skin from Rees-Mogg's feet...

I could go on (you get the gist)

The opportunity I missed

To let the moron on my path

Think I was a polymath,

To blind the berk with rhetoric

To make him realise he's thick.

It takes a Mobius logic twist

For each Tory apologist,

So finally, I'll summarise:

I will not bow to Tory lies,

And when you're asking for my vote,

It's "grow a brain, you silly scrote."