DISENFRANCHISED

The polling station is a tiny hall
of flint and brick, and bears a little plaque
proclaiming it to be a noble gift
from local squirearchy.  Gloom within
contains a pair of local worthy ladies
noting tweedily our polling numbers.

I take my ballot paper to the booth
and survey my choices.  First the Tories
of which a pair are standing - allies both
of Boris Johnson, blond buffoon MP.

Ignoring them - next, Liberal Democrats.
These would-be councillors are horrified
to think that local folk should contribute
to public toilets in the town, and state
quite rightly, that Conveniences are
so rarely used by locals.  I do hope
that when they venture out to other towns,
expecting no relief, they cross their legs.
Their petty lack of logic I reject.

This brings me to the bottom of the list;
there are no other names.  I search in vain
for Labour candidates, perhaps a Green
or Monster Raving Loony.  In distress
I turn the ballot paper over - blank!

Considering not voting, I resist;
remind myself of every suffragette
who chained herself to railings, went to jail
or threw herself beneath the monarch's horse
so I could vote.  I then take up the stub
of blunted pencil, swinging on its string,
and write, in psephological disgust
the pithy comment "NONE OF THE ABOVE".