I'm not the one, I hope, to curse or carp,
And yet my ink grows acid, my pen sharp,
When I consider one whose well-bred charm
Served him so well, and did his country harm.
That’s Cameron, who with Etonian ease
And sanctimonious words made policies
That pleased his cronies on the Commons floor,
But cost the commonwealth, and hurt the poor.
He was a clever man, his natural flair
Enhanced by lessons learned from Tony Blair,
Who taught him that if true success you’d make,
Sincerity is what you have to fake.
The Bullingdon accent’s not the people’s choice,
And so, like Blair, he’d modulate his voice
On telly, where his accent turned to slop,
-Ings lost their g, and glottals found a stop.
His principles were few. They found fruition
When he and Lib Dems forged a coalition.
Master of art, he played a crafty game,
Got what he wanted, while Clegg took the blame.
His hide was teflon, where no mud will stick,
And all he did was always politic.
Very hard problems threatening his agenda
He’d shrug away, by granting referenda.
The Libs demanded voting on R.P.
No problem – Britain dished them scornfully.
The Scots grew restless; he threw them a bone -
They shrank from living by themselves alone.
But then the ideologues on his party’s right
Grew nasty about Europe, so this slight,
And opportunist man allowed a vote
Deciding: ‘Should this nation slit its throat?’
He gambled with his country, and he lost,
Then slid away, and others paid the cost.
If you have any thoughts on this poem, Dervla Ramaswamy
would be pleased to hear them.