People in Glass Mansions Shouldn’t Throw Stones

Dear Mr Gove, sir,
Spouting forth your Credo
Wouldn’t be better off
Messing with your play-dough?
Squashing, squeezing, pinching out
National spirit, public doubt,
Struggling for a sympathy vote
With each any every tender quote,
The confidence that you exude
Honed especially to preclude
The very possibility
That you are taking liberties,
Imposing views on mere mortals
Who haven’t the privilege of hallowed portals,
Shelters of intellectual protection
Where Privilege confers unification;
A rarefied podium of sand indeed
Allowing critique of perceptions of need,
Licensed for public declaration
By the government of the nation.
The thing, though, Sir, that weakens your voice
Is the overwhelming privilege of Choice,
Life chances few could even imagine
Conferring your place in a fine glass mansion
Where status protects but cannot condone
The working man’s right to throwing stones,
Missiles plaintive in their projection;
A collective endeavour to signal rejection
Of phrases awash with rhetoric
All in the name of self-serving polemics.


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