Power answers all: but something ere the polls,
Some work of headline note, may yet be done,
As unbecoming as our pose as Gods.
The lights begin to twinkle from Whitehall:
The spun news palls: the ego strains: the benches
Moan with angry voices. Come, my friends,
'Tis not too late to seek another world,
Blast off, and, waiting George's orders, slight
The silent Beagle; for his purpose holds
To 'Go' beyond the sunset, make his moon
Base 'mong the western stars, and then to fly
To where, far o'er the Gulf, we will look down
On mushroom bursts that cloud Earth's deserts red
And make a Martian dust of all we knew.
Though much is screwed up, war abides; and though
We have not now that hideous strength which once
Scorned earth and heaven; that which we are, we are;
One nasty temper of deluding hearts,
Stretched thin by time and fate, but deep in guile
To scheme, to cheat the poll - and not resign.

                    (Apologies to Alfred, Lord Tennyson)