Labour will win – the blue flags must come down.
Labour will lose – we’ll drive them out of town.
Peruse numerical views by Paddy Ashdown,
it’s pandemonium in Television Town.
They’ve charcoaled Alex Salmond’s eyebrows squint,
they’re trying to make out Nicola’s a bint.
For Boris a Jockalypse is imminent,
it’s pandemonium before the count.
The canvassers have been from door to door,
their leaflets coloured muddles on the floor.
I don’t know what they’re proselytising for.
It’s pandemonium, whether less or more.
The Greens go round on bicycles and quip
that copyright is past its date. UKIP
will not release us from the Tories’ grip.
It’s pandemonium and sinking ships.
The world was ruled and will be ruled again.
Meanwhile we marvel at these women and men,
intentions gleaned through camera and pen,
till pandemonium closes in again.
The Tories win. We’re stuck with them for years,
leading to fears and tears and costlier beers.
We’ll drink to the next civic crisis – Cheers! –
for pandemonium will soon be in arrears.
Sally Evans’ poetry books include The Bees (2008) and Poetic Adventures in Scotland (2014). A new book, The Grecian Urn, with translations, is at press in Bucharest. Sally says “when I tried to write a posh poem about the election I wasn’t being honest, so this is the result”.