Poetic Licence: A Hot Date With Ann Widdecombe

Ann Widdecombe, the shadow Home Secretary has not been idle while standing in for William Hague during his holiday. The MP's schedule has taken in 140 media interviews, 15 major speeches and 16 constituency visits

You'd recognise her anywhere

If only by her style of hair

Pure Norman Conqueror coiffed by Quant

Ann Widdecombe. Shadow-U-Want

The Duty Boot-girl of the right.

Patrols Westminster late at night

Dispensing meals to homeless blokes

While thrusting sticks in Labour spokes

In three scant weeks, with Hague away

Not one spare minute in the day

Without she roars off like Judge Dredd

To crack some slacker on the head

For something that he'd said or done

Forgotten, scrounged or hit and run

She's well tooled-up for any row;

Hospital John? Outside. Right now.

Those pregnant prisoners chained to beds

Now long-forgotten in the heads

Of gloomy blues marooned in shires

Who lick their wounds round dismal fires

Of baseball caps and half-baked spin

Run straight from printer into bin

While image-makers try to knit

A battle-hat for Wonder Squit.

But ah, this goddess underneath

Unwed as yet (like Edward Heath)

Not quite the fairest of her sex

But cannons blazing on all decks

Comes dutifully sailing past

To blast away the mizzen mast

Of some craft idling in the bay

Whose captain dares to holiday

No Tuscany for her my boys

The sort of thing that she enjoys

Are bracing yomps on misty moors

They don't include such softy shores

She's tough on bullshit and the cause

Makes Thatcher look like Santa Claus

God help those gurus of the spin

Should Hague go out and she come in