Old Hat

All this pointless pontificating
sat with my hands clasping
the only warmth and courage
the morning's third coffee provides.
Where is the urgency,
the action that could not distract us,
that English grit and determination
seemingly unwound from our bones?

So be it, the dusty hands clap
providing a light waterfall
reflecting your momentum,
has this become a game of stress and submission,
seemingly your wisdom
did a three-point turn
when it came to the T-junction
but who am I to declare your policies pathetic?
A heckler from the stalls
who left their temper at the cloakroom,
with a smile and a nod,
before cracking her knuckles
at the thought of bureaucratic.

Shrug at the shirking of those frightened to work
they who are allowed the benefits of negligence,
returning to obese houses,
glittering with the rarest materials,
after spending much of the day arguing
waving their papers as their crests.

Yet I do not describe those who roll their tees into vests
or show off a pale-white bare chest,
they will have their own epic verse
when it is time for them to jump in the hearse
led down the road to the tinny lament on mobile phones.

No, it is those in bespoke suits
doing nothing 'cept bicker and loot,
what purpose do you provide
distanced from the pride
hyenas of the house
the advantage predator,
preaching your faith for Cornish pasties
but when seated in the dining room
you may quaff there is no hope
for those who cannot use a grape spoon.

"Decisions, decisions"
Old Fawkes must've thought
before they smashed him senseless
his autograph distraught.
Cruel notions must pester their minds
when we watch grown humans squabble
in their parliamentary rhymes.

I have neither the time and have sifted through patience
to grow an extra limb out of complacence,
either get it done or get out
before you're suffocated in brewing shouts.