There's a whisper in the sticks now it's 1996
As the Tories teeter to the drop
Asking "Voter where is Voter, can we rustle up a rota?
We must find one or we're for the chop."
All the ministers and members have been raking through
They are scrambling to and fro,
Calling "Voter,where is Voter?" and "Unless we find a quota,
Then we Tories have to go."
As the witching hour comes, they are twiddling lucky thumbs,
While they're whistling feebly in the dark,
For Voter's on its back on a private stretch of track
In the national themeless park.
Midnight shakes the hollow men
As a ragman shakes a rotting cranium.
Majority, Majority, there's no-one like Majority,
He gives a knackered cabinet illusions of authority:
He always has a policy, a slogan, or a prayer,
But however hard they do their sums - MAJORITY'S NOT