I sit here waiting to be told

Of my own stock I have no hold

The water is arid and fire cold

Until I venture to be told

I have no stock since nill has been my lot

Although from time to time I envy what another got

Called on to fight, by flight I handle getting shot

I have no beans nor cabbage of my own to fill my pot

My wonder at immense night skies lays dessicated

A burden of dependency for me has staled all awe

So that I can be certain I have covered like a trough

All opinion on the onions of our governors

I like the hard cement of being in regimen

I like a secure feeling in my roasting knees

There’s great escape in orders, mobile phones and scones for tea,

The management of futures raises no impediment

As like a Great White Uncle putting one to bed

Tucking my sheets in, whispering my eyes sweet dreams

Occasioned lullabies are played that synthesise my head

All’s patriotic pastoral with flannel strings

I let the ones in charge decide what we should do

I ride the Southern Region coming in at Waterloo

I sit hard on a bench my throat to drench in Special Brew

I’m a common sight, a water-feature, as such, nothing new

Let those we chose whose want is to be leader

Take on the load, take up the dowsing sticks of fate

Make postulates, procrastinate, pulling the levers,

I shall be stone not paper every time the game is scissors