O ye of Westminster, lend me thine ears! Hear now the tale of Starmer’s stern decree, Where rebels bold, with conscience as their spear, Defied their chief, and now independents be! Four names now cast to winds of fate’s discordance, Braving the storm of Labour’s fierce ordinance.
In halls of power, where banners red do fly, Sir Keir, with furrowed brow, did raise his hand. “Obey the whip!” he cried to clouded sky, Yet these four souls would not his will withstand. They spurned the bill, those welfare cuts most dire, And fanned the flames of backbench rebel fire.
O fickle MPs, with votes that went astray, Ye dared to challenge Starmer’s iron grip! For brazen defiance, as some would say, He stripped your whip and sent you on a trip. To sit alone, as independents now, With whispered oaths and bold, unyielding vow. What crime provoked this swift and stern rebuke?
’Twas not one vote, but many, hearts ablaze. The welfare bill, their conscience did not brook, And so they lit rebellion’s reckless blaze. A mighty throng joined in the fray, unbowed, Yet these four bore the axe, their fate avowed.
O Starmer, thou who seeks to tame the flock, Thy rod is swift, thy patience swiftly spent! But hark, the rebels cry, “We’ll not be mocked! Our hearts are true, for poorest souls we’re meant!” They stand for those who toil in want and need, Their votes a spark to challenge power’s creed.
Yet murmurs rise in taverns and the street, Of “petty tyrants” and “Tory in disguise.” The mob doth jest, with laughter none too sweet, “Starmer’s wrath doth make his foes arise!” A new cause looms, where rebels find their call, And dream of banners raised beyond the hall.
O Cicero would smile at such a farce, Where principle and power clash in jest! The Commons roars, a circus none too sparse, As Starmer’s axe doth carve his party’s chest. So raise a glass to rebels bold and brash, Who dared to dance where discipline did crash!