Countdown
One hundred days on the rostrum
One hundred days on the stump
One hundred days of anti-colostrum
One hundred sups from the sump
Thoughts well inside me of murder most foul
Referee please, may I throw in my towel?
Soundbites are carved from a soap-cake
Soundbites are frothy, like scum
How many feet of old rope make
The cost of their hanging, old chum?
Off with their tongues! Someone please minute us
And act before all of us die from sheer tinnitus
Here are the keen correspondents
Shining from top lip to eye
The words coat their teeth as if fondant
(There’s nothing beneath them, is why)
Here is the noise of excitable babble
Based on an idiot’s version of Scrabble
Everyone look at the lens
Everyone squint at the birdie
Everyone wave at their friends
There’s isn’t a hurdier gurdy
There isn’t a noisier party in town
‘I The Returning …’ Oh please turn it down
Click here for an Independent story
Click here to buy a copy of Bill’s poetry collection Ringers
Click here for Bill’s New Statesman research project
