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When I have fears that I may cease to be,
never returned to Westminster again
because constituents will not vote for me
because they link me to some gravy train;
when polls force me, aghast, to contemplate
what unemployment means, what's real life
beyond the Commons' kindly nanny state,
when I'd be stuck all day with just my wife;
when I'd be struggling with the cost of stamps,
or queueing, wondering how to catch a bus,
my self-esteem no higher than a tramp's,
I wonder what I'll earn without much fuss.
Michael Portillo made it on TV.
Could the next train-presenting chap be me?