Once
long ago,
near a village church steeple,
There
lived a good Sovereign,
named Wee
Arda Peeple.
All was
well in the land,
till one season, most sinister,
When
time came for Peeple
to choose a
Prime Minister.
Two
contenders appeared,
all too ready to fight --
Two
noble of birth,
and each one
a good knight.
There
was George, Son of Bush,
a rich prince rather simple,
And
Albert, Sir Chad-alot,
the Squire of
Dimple.
Now,
Albert was awkward,
and a bit of a bore,
And full
of bravado
(and perhaps
a bit more).
And
George, though he tried
to be everyone's chum,
Was
sometimes befuddled
and quite
tied of tongue.
Well,
the Sovereign decreed,
"Have a match of their wits."
So no
one foretold
George'd
give Albert the fits!
"The
treas'ry o'erfloweth,"
cried George with a smirk.
"The
tax is too much
on our wealth
and our work!"
"But
what of our promise
to our old and our needy?
And our
schools and our wildlands?
We mustn't
be greedy!
"Govern
wisely," cried Albert,
"The state's a good server!"
"Govern
less!" cried Prince George,
with no less
of a fervor.
George
scolded Sir Albert,
"You lie like a rug!"
But
Albert responded,
"You've
the brain of a bug!"
Abruptly
there came
welcome end to the spin.
And all
looked to the Sovereign
to learn who
did win.
"Though
the two were well matched,"
spoke the Sovereign, quite sober,
"I've
made up my mind.
Now this
contest is over."
So the
Sovereign thus drafted
his royal selection
And sent
it to Parliament
to seal this
election.
But
Parliament cried,
"We can't read what you wrote!"
So the
Sovereign responded,
"I'll
tell you my vote."
But
Parliament balked,
"That won't do! Not official!"
So they
sent their concerns
to tribunals
judicial.
For
weeks, courts discussed
who did win and did lose,
Till
Peeple did sigh,
"So just
whom did I choose?"
One can
hope that such trials
bring no lasting begrudgement.
But wise
is the Sovereign
who trusts
his own judgement.
