The Smug, The Sad and The Severe
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I'm watching politicians on TV And see that there are Largely three varieties. First, The Smug: He hails From junior debating society, Almost always male, Complexion chiefly pale, He's schooled in swingeing Wit and verbal pugilistics, Now in thirties, forties, fifties, Wears a banker's suit And smiles for the camera, And when it comes to mooting points He boasts interminable stamina. See how he rises with alacrity And crushes foes elastically, Then, verbal sparring done, Adopts a solemn tone: Tells us Every hat should have a home, (Then cocks to check his mobile phone) But now he's back, insisting Every dog should have a bone. He sounds these bites With awesome clarity, Lips hard-selling charity, Gesticulations sweep To breed familiarity, While hunted eyeballs scratch The air for ever finer witticisms With which to poke the opposition. Behind him lies The Sad, Male, sixty plus, who's lost the knack For dashing verbal uppercuts. Downcast in grey, His limping mouth Betrays preoccupation With regrets and health And a growing sense of unease At the sources of his wealth. True, he's somewhat wiser, But finds it hard to criticize his Protégé. What right have we to blame, Knowing we were much the same? He opts for a supporting role And simply rolls his eyes At cries of "Shame!" No longer sharp enough himself To play the smugness game. Beside, beyond these Honorable Men Sit the severe headmistresses and mother hens. Arched and frozen, stiff with hate (Though this is not their natural state, In fact they are the ones who care), Their icy stares stab At the suited blubber But the words bounce back, They haven't got the knack, Don't know how to spice the fight With Common Room tact, Too quick to play the part of acid ranter, Their angry truths don't elevate the banter, Too vexed and tense to pass off Satire with a knowing shrug, At night they weep and wish that They were young and male and smug.
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Poem Study Notes:This poem was written in 2014, which was an election year in the UK. One office lunchtime, the poet was at the gym, lazing on the exercise bike in front of Sky Sports, when the TV channel inexplicably changed to the Parliament Channel and Prime Minister's Question Time. Of course the poet could not move to an alternative machine, being halfway through his workout and reluctant to confuse his statistics. Frustrated, the poet later vented his rage by writing this poem. There is some doubt as to how well qualified this poet is to criticise British politicians. He has met more Russian politicians than British ones, but when he has met British ones, he has been astonished at their perfectly clean and well-cut suits (to such a point of dazzled distraction that he couldn't really comment on the words coming out of their mouths one way or another). In his favour, this poet never reads newspapers or watches the news on TV (so you could interpret his ignorance as objectivity).
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