Politics

The Parliament Game

In the blue‑lit chambers of Westminster
where the old stone walls gossip in echoes,
the MP’s words turn to fire‑bright wagers
and quiet hushes, like candlelight, grow.

The House of Commons, a workshop of wills,
splits voices over bills and budget dreams;
whispers of policy spill over fences,
while the Lords inhale the echo of ceaseless streams.

The Speaker’s gavel, a silver pause,
tells every faction to settle the fray:
“Order, order!”—a curt, old-fashioned hush—
and the Whip signals, “We must not stray.”

Every corner of the city, every lane,
refreshed in political colour and consequence,
questions twisting like the Thames in rain,
grasp the future, the present, rent the present tense.

Crossing the Commons into the Lords’ calm,
the mood tilts the way the pub‑cakes crumble:
statutes, like stories, are read again;
the China‑clad debate, a quiet rumble.

There, the Prime Minister, with staff at fingertips,
weaves a tapestry of promises, bold and soft,
while the opposition plots like fox‑fur pockets—
each point a standing‑point in a calling loft.

Wars of conscience, not just iron, are waged;
the public vote—sparsely, relentlessly—asks,
“Will heroes guard our future, or will the press?
Will truth be more valued than the cost of taxes?”

Yet politics is not just a flash‑in‑the‑steam:
it’s the lifeblood of our Metro‑grid,
the rumours in the cafés, whispered between coffee cups,
the gentle push to keep the light on in the night.

So here, in English soil under the old flag’s sway,
we mend, we break, we seek the right pathway.
This is politics, a game of musket and pen—
an honour we play on the swing of every season.