I
So we’ll see who inspires
old, true-blue Tory shires;
they’re watching the race unfold.
Six runners now remain,
but it’s still much the same;
all clearly going for gold.
Silver or bronze, it’s true,
will really just not do;
a soul’s not so cheaply sold.
The most convincing lies
will still capture first prize;
for fortune favours the bold.
II
But the public don’t care
how each one might compare;
or words they seek to intone.
People, they’ve had enough
of promises and stuff;
their hearts are as hard as stone.
So let’s let them compete,
like wild dogs in the street;
just scrapping over a bone.
Or, like the two bald men –
we all remember them –
still squabbling over a comb.