Speech heckled? Opposition jeers?
Reporters relished such a rare display
Of catcalls quickly charmed to cheers
The lobby's boo turned literary bouquet.
Yet, when the Press rang warning bells,
With hints a skeleton might yield its tale,
Heíd fly to country sports, long spells
Out after pigeons on some farmerís kale.
Peace came, protected in his hide
And tweeds, both barriers to bile and barb,
Though since the seatís incumbent died
He's been exposed to all in different garb.
He stands bronze-clad now, turning green,
A mark at which the spray-can might take aim
If not for, perched on him to preen,
The town dovesí daily whitewash of his name.
If you have any comments on this poem, Jerome Betts would be
pleased to hear from you.