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By Paul Francis
Has Labour blown it? Sold their souls?
It’s Armageddon at the polls.
Remember twenty twenty-four,
that talk of Change? Not any more.
A fall is coming, when not if,
as Starmer tumbles off the cliff
arms flailing, grabbing at thin air
refusing to admit despair.
Surely it’s over, with this vote?
His fingers clutch around the throat
of Labour; he is hanging on
though all those councillors have gone.
His minders nod, they know the score;
they chant the mantra, like before:
Maybe we’re crap, maybe we’re shit
but we must never, ever split.
The Left stays strong, we must unite
behind our leader, who is right.
Given the crises at this time
to question leadership’s a crime.
Though Starmer’s rule may be a curse
all the alternatives are worse.
Collaboration’s Burnham’s game.
He talks, without a trace of shame,
to different parties, other groups.
In Manchester a range of troops
are mobilised by shared ideals.
That’s not a prospect that appeals
to Starmer’s Labour; their control
means domination is their goal.
Outside the camp? Nothing to see.
Everyone else is enemy.
Patrol the compound, keep them out;
no room for innovation, doubt.
Don’t crack the mould; the pattern’s set
just tinker with the cabinet.
Tick over. Stay at Number Ten.
Rinse and repeat. Again. Again.
Spell out what everybody knows:
nothing will change until he goes.
