The Dancing Bear
by Edward MacKinnon, with image above by Martin Gollan
Back in his constituency
enjoying a beer with his own people,
unshackled from the courtesies of debate,
he fed them insider snippets, confessed that at first
he’d been baffled by parliamentary rules and rituals
but now felt thoroughly at home
with the Honourable Member and My Right Honourable Friend
told them how he’d scrupulously obeyed three-line whips
and honoured the convention of avoiding controversy in his maiden speech
how he’d been nothing less than awed by the State Opening of Parliament
the pageantry, the ushers, courtiers, heralds and peers in ermine robes
and Black Rod knocking at the door three times
how he’d studied the prerogatives of the Crown
and dutifully noted that everything the monarch did
was done graciously.
He was like the dancing bear
who escaped back to the forest
and found the other bears unimpressed
by his so-called art, the dancing
he was inordinately proud of.
For them it was a testament
to his base and servile character.
