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Beau
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The Promised Land
The dust is unacceptable
Though the air is very still,
And the ancient bus is coughing
As it splutters up the hill.
Down in the valley, lightning flashes
Split a frightened sky;
And buzzards wheel and wait
For all the animals to die.
The scene moves to the mountain top
Where, toiling through the night
To the sunrise haze, communiqués
From the left and from the right
Are passed along down passageways
From the many focus groups;
Info packs for the hungry hacks
And the waiting party troops.
They talk of how the failing rains
Have been getting out of hand
And of regret they haven't yet
Produced the Promised Land.
And yes, we can be reassured about
The steepness of that hill
And of the rush there is to push
Their Transportation Bill.
They worry about the lightning storm;
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They ask me how it feels.
I say I think they're missing out
On loftier ideals;
That maybe they should take a glance
At the buzzards in the sky.
They shake my hand and say
I've been a really helpful guy.
So we offer up our precious votes
With all those hopes and dreams.
The focus groups have done their work,
Or that's the way it seems.
We all become their Facebook friends,
We take their Twitter feed;
And ironically, they follow us
When once they used to lead.
Yet the dust is unexplainable
Though the air is deathly still.
The ancient bus still coughs
And struggles gamely on the hill.
Down in the valley, thunder roars
Across a frightened sky.
The buzzards wheel and wait
For all the animals to die…
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