TWENTY

You’re in a paper bag trying to get out,
Whilst outside is air that is trying to get in,
And if on the off chance you happen to set yourself free;

Then there’s a peer on TV who’s trying to get out too,
Hoping to get inside your head and shape it.
He’s got brass that belongs on a pirate’s box,
Not yours, but one entrenched in servile time;
He’s unperturbed by the laws laid down to govern this,
Or strengthen that or lengthen terms earned in-between,
Never been a better time to lay down with colleagues,
Licking his lips with a tongue he’s painted with.

Some sort of Lord with an outlandish reputation,
Works in the big house where they pattern persuasion,
He’s got the right face to take advertisement,
And deputise a highway man.