It is reported that there is a general election tomorrow.
Campaigning’s almost at an end,
After six weeks of earbend,
As politicians to a man*,
Try to recruit you as a fan.
Campaigning has been rather odd,
Each leader out there on his* tod,
And ministers kept far away,
For fear of what they might all say.
There’ve been exceptions – Abbott, Di. –
Descending sometimes from on high,
To say that we need more police,
And they’re just thirty quid apiece.
Their reasoning is fairly plain:
The Tories thought that they would gain,
With Mrs May out to the fore,
Attracting votes as not before.
And Labour who thought they’d no hope,
Just wanted to stick their chief dope,
In front of cameras on his own,
So when he had the whole thing blown,
They’d say it really was a shame,
But everyone knew who to blame.
And then of him they might get shot,
Replace him with some sort of bot,
And then they’d hope in prose or rhyme,
To have some better luck next time.
But half-way through things went awry,
When manifestoes one could buy,
And then it seemed that Mrs May,
Might possibly have had her day.
While Mr Corbyn, dear old soul,
Found that he did enjoy his rôle,
And as the days passed he could see,
A surge in popularity.
So as we reach election day,
With everything now back in play,
We’ll have to see who got it right –
We’ll find out on election night.
* or woman
* or her
Image – Secretlondon123