Prime Ministers come and go,

just as England football managers

arrive and depart,

in failure,

in ignominy,

own goals, let down badly

by the team or driven man

with the lust for power

and glory.

The conveyor belt, unceasingly

brings along the next unsuitable candidate,

the fresh hope, wit and the beaming smile;

things will change,

I am sure,

under them.

 

The roar of the Wembley crowd,

replaced by time and poor results

for the hatred bestowed

upon black door number ten,