If – for 2019

Kipling Would Turn In His Grave

Our British political system is broken;

  • Traitorous MPs are intent on defying the #Brexit vote of 17.4 million people.
  • Labour are reneging on their 2017 Election pledge to honour the referendum result and are now pushing for a #PeoplesVote #LosersVote.
  • MPs from both sides are quitting their parties in the name of democracy but refusing to stand down and fight a by-election.
  • Theresa May is setting us up for an extension to Article 50 even though she’s said more than 50 times that we’re leaving on 29th March and that “No Deal is better than a bad deal”

People like Rudyard Kipling will be spinning in their graves. So in tribute to the great man I’ve re-written his famous poem “If” for 2019.

If – for 2019

If you can keep your seat when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming the far right,
If you can bullshit and still all men trust you,
But cash-in your allowances out of sight; 
If you can lie and not be tired by lying,
Or being tweeted at, don’t deal in tweets,
Or being honest, don’t give way to trying,
And yet don’t look too smug, nor indiscreet:

If you can dream—and not make others dreams your master;
If you can think—and not make others thoughts your aim; 
If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster
And blame Brexit for both impostors just the same;
If you can barely hear the truth you’ve spoken
Twist fake news to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the promise you gave constituents, broken,
Whilst sending all your kids to private schools

If you can make a heap of all your winnings
Without risk, and give not a single toss,
And next election start again at the beginning
And never breathe a word of credibility lost;
If you can find your heart your nerve your sinew
You’re probably not fit to serve your throng, 
And so go on though there’s no substance in you
Except the Will which says “I’ve done nowt wrong”

If you can talk with crowds and signal virtue,
Then laugh at how false is your common touch,
If journalists nor loving friends can hurt you,
If all votes count for nothing very much,
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds’ worth of bullshit spun, 
Yours is Westminster and all that is in it,
And—which is more—you’ll be an MP, my son!

Phil C.