Or Tuscany, the proper name -
The middle classes stay away
And claim it isn't quite the same.
I've never been there, wouldn't know.
It's not the sort of place I go.
Polenta, sun-dried toms and oil...
No, Dunwich is the place to be.
Just me, the ghosts, the seagulls,
Some wind-dried chips, a cup of tea,
The half-imagined tolling
Of the church bells undersea,
Some Adnams for a gargle
In the hedgerow-scented night
And not a single lap-top
Or a Gap-clad kid in sight.
You voters who are "marginal"
May soon pick up your telephone
To find our PM on the line,
A one-to-one all of your own:
"Well, hi! My name is Tony, right?
Remember me? This may seem odd,
But had you thought of voting La-"
"You got me out the bath, you sod!"
"Well, hey, and that's terrific! But
I wondered how you'd vote today?"
"I've never heard of Tony Wright.
I'm soaking wet. Now go away."
Back on the case once more,
The Regans and the Carters
We used to know of yore,
The "shall I break his leg, guv?" type,
Quite useful in its way,
Though not the sort of image
Which the force projects today.
Retrained in Nineties manners,
Those veterans they've picked
Must learn to say, "Good day, sir,"
Not, "Right, you slag, you're nicked!"
Now here's a simple slow-ball,
So let's see if you can catch:
If a motor car's a matchbox
And its driver is a match,
And the matchbox isn't moving
Owing to surpluses of stocks,
Might you put the single matches
All together in one box?
Now applying this to drivers -
And I know this sounds insane -
We could solve the transport problem
With a bus or, say, a train.
Though enforcement would be
And initially expensive,
The results would be amazing
And the benefits extensive.
So they boot the ball to Prescott
And expect him to begin it
With his wrists tied to his ankles.
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