Born within a few weeks of each other
Tony Blair and I knew heady times
He's become the leader of our nation:
I of course write rhymes.
Nineteen fifty-three, a post-war vintage
Tony Blair and I emerged to light
His dad Mr Blair, mine Sergeant Newell:
I wonder if he still remembers Cuba
The tension in the air in 'sixty-two
Nine years old, anxiety-by-proxy?
Because I still do.
And of the thousands hypnotised by pop stars
Who ultimately left us in the lurch
Which one fell saucer-eyed into the maelstrom
And which one went to church?
A politician married with ambition
Young, perceived as relatively hip
Old incumbents never saw him coming
Hard left curled its lip.
Autumn '96, the troops were marshalled
Shiny happy people holding hands
Union Jeremiahs, old curmudgeons
Wrung their hands.
May-time came for Labour and the country
Britannia yielded Lochinvar her heart
Sleepy woke Cherie, to early flowers
Till death us do part.
In the petit mort of post-election
Middle English baebes with droning voices
Set about the nannying of the country
Our "lifestyle choices".
Tony Blair and I have this in common
Both were given chances at the start
Children of a solid welfare system
Now torn apart.
Hard-man? Gambler? Missionary? Bland-out?
Would-be new Messiah? What should I think?
And what would I do were I to meet him?
Buy the bloke a drink.