FG Leadership contest heats up!

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The day you slithered from the womb

the Doctor held you aloft, confirmed what we’d feared:

“Madam, it’s a potential Minister for Health.” And newborn you

screamed what we later understood to mean:

“bring me your perforated eardrums, your infected

urinary tracts, and I will set up a committee to look in them.”

But this most recent birth wasn’t the beginning.

Since shortly before time officially began,

you’ve dragged yourself across the top soil.


You were present and correct to brush the dandruff

off the Lord Mayor’s hat each time he visited

the municipal Home for Unfortunate Women

whose babies had to be flogged

to couples named Barbara and Algernon,

so as to be prudent with the Parish’s pennies.


You were on hand to personally present

the late archbishop with his fifth chocolate biscuit,

last time he visited the much maligned

School for The Blind, which used to be

where the town abattoir now stands.


And it was written

in lines later deleted from the Book of Judges

that it would be you who’d flood

our hospitals with avant-garde urologists

who instead of the traditional

(and far more costly) balloon catheter,

and ultrasonic stone disintegration apparatus,

prefer more radical treatments involving

a fishing rod

and an electric hair straightener.


Your upcoming marriage the usual

confidence and supply arrangement

you’ve had every other century.

Your fingers are starving worms

patiently awaiting their moment.