Premature Elegy for Hilary Benn

by Kevin Higgins

A chandelier accent

comes galloping to the aid

of things as they must remain.

A perfect bag of air, with a mouth

that can sound out the word

fascism.

 

He heroically picks up the test-tube

to pour out the blood of others.

He believes, passionately, in allies

the Prime Minister invented

while smoking a large herbal cigarette

Boris gave him the other morning;

perseveres, stoically, when those

who, in traditional times,

didn’t have telephones

call his office to tell his staff

what he is, or say the truth

about him on Twitbook.

 

Eventually, he’ll go upstairs

to not sit at the right hand

of his father, who’ll be too busy

trying to light his pipe,

or having a difference of emphasis

with the late Vladimir Lenin

over a ginormous mug of tea,

to be bothered with Junior’s excuses

 

for having spent

his final years on Earth

in a vast red robe

banging on the door

of the House of Lords,

shouting for someone to, please,

let him in.