Post Room Rights

The post room was overflowing with politicians.
They were silent, crouched with closed eyes
facing the walls in coned hats that read “D.”
All of them had been very bad, Gordon said.

And they should be ashamed, like he was,
they’d been stealing from the piggy bank
with nasty receipts. Jack Straw was patrolling,
smacking his cosh in his hand with abandon.

He was in charge now, him and Mandelson,
the dark lord and the demon headmaster,
flushing the dirty dregs. Milliband was crying,
letter mountains piled up around them.

Harriet Harman had worked an eye loose.
She scrabbled at the envelopes until there it was!
The Legg Report. She ate it, but Straw saw
paper crumbs at her lip. He whirled the truncheon.

Blair watched the private feed, laughing in his yacht,
having just sold sole rights to his mate Murdoch.
He opened the Budweiser fridge, there they were,
golden quail eggs. He gobbled them. They were free after all.