Holding Fourth

A poem to be recited on the Fourth Plinth in Trafalgar Square

Here behold me, raised in glory, lifted to my proper station.

Hearken all who stand before me, hear my message to the nation.

Mine are words of poignant power, words to ponder, words to savour,

Grant me of your time an hour. All I ask is this small favour.

No dull sermon shall I offer, nor some politician’s prattle,

Neither shall you hear me proffer scandal-mongering tittle-tattle

But, within the time remaining, given your cooperation,

I shall tell you, though it’s raining, all about my operation.

Long I’d watched the nodule growing, long had seen it bulge and burgeon

Ever bigger, sadly knowing soon I’d have to see a surgeon.

My consultant, Mr Comber, turned towards speaking gravely

And, in manner sad and sombre, bid me take the bad news bravely.

‘This,’ he said, ‘is quite compelling. Yours is such a monstrous bunion!

Never have I seen a swelling larger than a giant onion.’

Look! I see that some have parted. Is the crowd below me thinning?

Stay, I pray! I’ve hardly started. This is just my tale’s beginning…