The Bat and the Union Jack

That night, hounds howled in fear more than wrath

Milk turned sour and all bread rotted to black.

The sky, overcast, save the silvery moon,

Thoughts sank into depths of gloom.

All Old Wives got out their pens and pads

Added to their tales, secretly glad

An extra few warnings and worries entered the world.

Along the corridors of the house, it could be heard

A groaning and moaning and finally just breath

As the creature was born upon the grand bed

The father, all monocle and splutters, was sozzled

The mother, in pain, snatched his brandy bottle.

The Doctor made the sign of the cross and vanished.

The bed, a wreck, inexplicably damaged.

The Nanny was happy, but only because she was paid

Smiling politely through this end-of-days.

Aside from some crying and glugging, silence preserved,

And the child, made no sound, it simply observed

It nodded at the staff, and they nodded back

It wrapped itself in a shawl, the colour of midnight black

It looked out the window, and seemed unimpressed

The father, now with brandy down his expensive vest

Went off to bed, needless to say his dreams were cruel

The mother, simply stared into space until the next noon.

The candles flickered, the room was cast in a slight glow

Or...did...could...the child...did anyone know…

The baby didn’t seem to cast a shadow...

The Household’s name was Vice-Moore

The kind of rich that like to spit on the poor

Not in public, obviously, but internally, and with pride

Some of that had leaked into the child’s piercing eyes.

And the child sought no nipple.  It turned to the Nanny

Eyes like pale moons reflected in a river

It bit down on her fingers

With teeth like needles.

If she felt pain, she didn’t show it.
After all, she was being paid

And the little monster, somehow, knew it.

The staff looked on, steeling back the sick

Was their minimum wage worth the risk?

They knew, deep-down,

This creature was destined for politics.

They didn’t sing on trains or buses, there wasn’t a street party

Though some families had friends round for a tot of brandy

The votes had been counted, the swing-ometer had swung

The Party led by Humphrey Vice-Moore had won

The new PM, with a devilish grin

Was now, officially, In.

A cunning ploy by his PR team decreed

No photos of the new PM, please

Just portraits.  Ceremonious and proper,

Besides, Humphrey knew he wouldn’t show up well through a camera.

“He’s so...aloof” his champions would agree

“He’s just...better than me”

Even his opponents, sat in Trade Union Halls

Agreed, there’s something hypnotic about it all.

Charming, aspiring, perfect and safe

The PM had taken to wearing a black cape

And, he’d requested, if it wasn’t too much hassle

Instead of Number 10 he’d rather live in a castle.
Now he'd been invited
The country was to be stifled.

And his evil power began to take root in policy

Across the country, services would bleed

Sliced and cut, access removed

Bitterness brewed.
A clawing vision
Narrow the education curriculum,
Fund the Armed Forces, forget the shelters
Mental health? Pull out the heart of the sector.
Carve up the NHS like a hunted corpse
Howl at protests with baton-wielding force.

Punching downward, hating thy neighbour

But, what was more stranger

Humphrey Vice-Moore added a bat
To the Union Jack.

Amazon sold out of pitchforks

B&Q all out of flaming torches

Argos mirrors, Millets stakes

The working class went to Lidl

The posh went to Waitrose

Regardless their class, the people bought up garlic cloves.

They piled out of meeting places, enraged and raucous

Ticket inspectors on trains pleaded

Don’t light your torches until they are needed

Be careful with those pitchforks, paramedics declared

It’s health and safety gone mad, some of the mob feared

Twitter was trending #whatsatstake

Cassetteboy had his own unique take

Memes popped up comparing the PM with Christopher Lee

Even sceptics had to admit, yes, lately it has been unusually foggy

His defenders said, look, just be glad

It could be worse, he could be a 2nd Vlad

Some tried to reason, said, let’s wait for an election

Others shrugged and said, it’s natural selection

"He’s the best man (or whatever he is) for the job

I’d keep him in no matter the cost!"

Well the cost was rising year-on-year

And the population had started cowering in fear

No more!  Time for the slaughter!

Let’s vote with our feet and casks of Holy Water!

The fire brigade conscripted hundreds of vicars

Never before had they blessed water quicker.

And in the Palaces of Westminster, Humphrey could hear them stomping

Chanting, like some protest, but this time with an added something

A sense of rightness, of duty, or purity

Humphrey licked his teeth purposefully.

His cabinet consisted of his oldest allies

They huddled, terrified under his soul-wrenching eyes

“I think it might be” suggested the Home Secretary

“That people believe you’re a…” his words faded away uselessly.

Humphrey scowled.  What was all this fuss?

They didn’t mind when the public services were cut?

Why now are the population in revolt?

Why was the Foreign Secretary sat inside a circle of salt

The Deputy PM stood up, braver than ever before

But still shaking like he’d been selected for war.

“The thing is, Humph, there’s a rumour going round

Believed in every village, city and town

Now, I know it’s all silly speculation

Stuff about coffins and desecrated soil accumulation

And I don’t mind Igor, the chap you appointed as whip

(not quite sure you needed to give the hunchback an actual...whip)

But the sitch is this, now, heard it through the wire

The nation believes you’re an actual vampire…”

Humphrey paused.  Bemused. Puzzled.  He laughed.

That’s rich.  That’s bizarre.  That’s a little bit...sad?

A member of the undead?  Me? I may be in charge

But I’m not some monster with a dark arcane art!

And just as PM Vice-Moore was about to ask how did this rumour start...

The Leader of the Opposition charged in
and stabbed him through the heart.

The blood washed all over the cabinet, the intruder cheered with fervour

“Bloody got the bugger!”

He looked down at his chest and the stake:

And he realised his one, great fatal mistake

The public can stomach the blood-sucking attacks

With tax havans and tax cuts and private sector contracts

They love to treat the workers like a buffet of snacks

But what they really can’t abide, a great British failure

The public had assumed Vice-Moore must be a vampire from Transylvania
(of course a region of Romania).

They didn’t mind being ruled by a British fiend

But one from abroad, well that was obscene!

So endeth Humphrey Vice-Moore, not-quite-vampire, who only liked
cricket bats.

The Times-reading, anthem-singing, flag-waving, dying,
blue-blooded aristocrat.