I've not really commented recently on the Glasgow North East by-election. Too busy. However, this morning, I was lucky enough to stumble across the following verse-lyric, smuggled to yours truly from the personal scrapbook of an artist, too self-effacing to put his name to the text. I publish it here, merely for your diversion and the enquiring interest of political scientists of remote posterity. Any similarities to the popular poem "Funeral Blues" by Mr Melted-Wellie face (left) is, I'm sure, simply coincidental.
A poem written from the perspective of a hypothetical dejected and defeated by-election candidate D----d K—r after Wystan Hugh Auden
Stop all the benefit, cut off the telephone
Prevent the hacks from barking and Bain I might dethrone
Silence my opponents and with muffled drum
Bring out the Lodge, let Orangemen come!
Let the voters circle moaning talking-heads
Scribbling on their ballots the message ‘fuck the neds’,
Push crap prose down the soggy necks of public pigeons,
Hope they don’t say “He ain’t from round here, we don’t like his religion”
There was my Willie, my Ruth, my Bax-an-dale,
My Baillie weak and my Tommy pale
Our drone, our cant, our talk, our song,
I thought this vote would last forever: “Thank God I was wrong”
Your votes are not wanted now, spoil every one;
Hack up my fliers, slump at the end run
Implore no more Glasgow 'cos I’ve now understood
That you gave not a toss which one of us stood.