It’s the year 2147.
Cancer’s cured & we’ve privatized snow
And a robot’s your neighbour
Yet still, same old Labour
For Corbyn refuses to go.
‘Look, this meeting may take three more hours,’
Said McCluskey, long light years ago,
Then four million times since.
They all weep, they all wince,
But still, Corbyn refuses to go.
‘Wait, I’ve got a suggestion,’ says Burnham
‘Shall we aimlessly drift to and fro?
Like, dissolve, reconvene?
Let’s not rush! Don’t be mean!’
Meanwhile, Corbyn refuses to go.
Here’s a thing you can do: put your feet up.
Wait till one sprouts an unplanned sixth toe
And the other turns green –
All you’ll miss, in between,
Is more Corbyn refusing to go.
‘Nothing lasts. All things change,’ said wise Buddha.
‘Boris, Dave, Leadsom, Gove – life must flow,
Reinvent itself hourly.’
Nope. Stubborn and scowly,
J Corbyn refuses to go.
Reproduced with permission of the author