On an island carved from granite,
Which down dark centuries provided light,
A dawn heralds a totally new monolith,
A new might born out of night,
It stands powerful, tall and imposing,
Dwarfing the loftiest models ever planned,
Seemingly indestructible and super solid,
Its the long prophesied Wicker Man.

And Lo, it says what all would hear,
It breathes air into all our sails,
And no one questions its honesty,
For statistically it never fails,
No one thinks to look inside,
For preview portents of the morrow,
A glimpse behind the media front,
Would show the Wicker Man is really hollow.

Programmed to realistically act out his part,
Chameleonesque to suit his current plot,
Never afraid to make pronouncements,
Of all the gleaming goodies he has got,
But when he tells us hes sincere,
And of all the honesty in his soul,
We dont realise hes just a Wicker Man,
And all thats inside is a hole.

Thats why he cant tell wrong from right,
Truth from fiction, pleasure from pain,
Because he hasnt got a soul or heart,
Just a self deluding convenience brain,
So whatever needs to be said to smooth,
Is intoned whilst looking straight in your eyes,
It matters not what hes telling you sincerely,
Is yet another pack of advantageous lies.

Ten years later there are those that can see,
Through that multi faceted outer shell,
Perceiving theres actually no substance,
Beneath the polished surface of farewell,
He trots out lists of achievements great,
From another land or another time,
To underpin his legacy and Churchillianness,
When all hes willed is poverty and rising crime,
An NHS to die for, merely enter their doors,
An education in illiteracy, shorn of history,
And decimating our troops in His illegal wars,
A population frightened in its own homes,
Who quietly dread the onset of feral night,
All because they three times trusted,
The Wicker Man would put it right.

His last speech was another treason,
His master class in barefaced lies,
There are no lasting epitaphs,
Glorifying Him in our eyes,
All that shimmers through the gloom,
His tenancy has created for us all,
Are rows of white marble headstones,
For those He sold out most of all,
For we can rebuild after Him,
Once he spontaneously combusts,
But our soldiers cant reincarnate,
To contest His abuse of trust,
Now the Wicker Man is abdicating,
In favour of Gordon the Smug,
Will we now see through his stupidity,
Or start taking a new drug.