Oh, woe betide thee, thou art the General Election Debate,

Or rather, as per His Holy Duke of Edinburgh, one grotesque cock fest,

Some might suggest, a General Erection Debate…

…A gaggling of prude euphemism, depicting sandwich technique as that,

Which will tilt the pendulum of ‘vote’; to vote,

The cursed duty of expression that doth yearn to be spun,

I visited the doctor when the moon was full, a week prior to yesteryear,

This doctor was one of spin, a spider sat immobile on swivel chair,

He made pains to quell my qualms, ‘it’s ok, he crieth,

You’re in Jeremy Hunt’s arms, now’

Oh the fear, the dread that did fill my heart,

So bellicose it did privatise my mind, drop my body’s share price and thus sell on,

Thereafter I did hear a wanton cry, ‘nurse, nurse! Water, please nurse, some water…’,

My, the voice did tremble;

In swooped the nurse as though falcon did embody, ‘sign this form, claim on your insurance,

ask your family, get it yourself, invest £2,345 in the tap, lobby the government, this isn’t the NHS you know?

I’m sorry’.