Ballot Box Blues
After WH Auden

The day dawned dry and windy, the game too close to call,
the pollsters with their reckonings had made fools of us all.
Never trust the numbers, my dear, never trust the numbers.

Meanwhile down at Morrison’s the spam was going cheap
but the price of bread and butter was enough to make you weep.
And the queues were getting long, my dear, the queues were getting long.

The schools were tight with children, the teachers getting thin,
the Heads were having heart attacks but none of the staff were in.
Everyone was sick, my dear, everyone was sick.

Went to see the doctor but the doctor wasn’t well.
The waiting room was like a scene from a Breughel hell
You just can’t get the staff, my dear, you just can’t get the staff.

Took the train to Limehouse where the immigrants wash up;
I waved at the homeless woman as she shook her empty cup.
But we don’t do handouts here, my dear, we don’t do handouts here.

Met my next door neighbour with shopping bags and kid;
I asked her if she voted; she said no, but her husband did.
‘It makes no odds to me, my dear, it makes no odds to me.’

Took my dog a-walking to my local polling booth
and I put her smile on twitter as if she was a harbinger of truth.
But we all know dogs can’t smile, my dear, we all know dogs can’t smile.

The world was growing darker as the map was turning blue;
I summoned the ghost of Keir Hardie to tell me what to do.
But he wouldn’t take the call, my dear, he wouldn’t take the call.

Our gardens fill with foxes, our houses fill with with prey,
the boats are weighed with strangers but we can look the other way.
There must be somewhere else, my dear, there must be somewhere else.

The cat without a collar is learning how to beg.
The rats come while he’s sleeping, and chew off half his leg.
That’s what hunger does, my dear, that’s what hunger does.

Jacqueline Saphra teaches at The Poetry School. Her first full collection The Kitchen of Lovely Contraptions (flipped eye) was nominated for the Aldeburgh First Collection Prize. An illustrated book of prose poems, If I Lay On My Back I Saw Nothing But Naked Women, was recently published by The Emma Press. www.jacqueline.saphra.net

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