Dead Man Talking
I thought that I was dodo-dead,
Beyond where life or thought is;
I thought that, should I go to bed,
I'd wake with rigor mortis.
On funeral forms, my name was inked –
But now I find I'm not extinct.
I thought they'd punctured my balloon,
And blown my final eggs –
But, drinking in Last Chance Saloon,
I see they've found some dregs.
Perhaps there is one ghostly roar
Left in this giant dinosaur.
I thought I was the question
To which there's no more answer,
A lemon, less than zesty, in
The bin. But, limbo-dancer,
I find that I've not crossed the Styx,
And haven't yet been knocked for six.
So, though I am half-stunned and see
How soon I may be trounced,
The news of my redundancy
Has not yet been announced:
Some say I'm sick, but I believe
That there is time for one more heave.
I thought that creature Cameron
Had zipped me in a bag,
Had sung my Götterdämmerung,
Had left me limp as rag.
Although the pollster's tongue is forkèd,
I'm Gordon Brown, the ghostly orchid.
Read the Guardian article here