Who do you think you are kidding, Mr. Starmer?

Who do you think you are kidding, Mr. Starmer?  
With your suit pressed sharp,  
and eyes that scan the crowd,  
each promise a soft wind,  
a whiff of hope,  
but the ground beneath us—  
it feels hard and cracked.

You speak of change,  
like painting a canvas bright,  
yet shadows linger in the corners,  
doubt like a dog,  
nipping at our heels  
every time you flaunt  
a new shiny vision.

Do you know the faces  
of the tired and the broken?  
They count their pennies,  
all dreams colliding in the night—  
while you draw plans  
on the backs of napkins,  
too far from the teacups,  
too high above the small talk.

Who do you think you are kidding, Mr. Starmer?  
Your words wrapped in silk,  
yet when we reach out,  
it slips through our fingers—  
like promises made on rain-soaked days,  
too slippery to hold on to.

Listen close, Mr. Starmer,  
there’s a tune in the air,  
a longing for truth,  
not shine and show,  
honesty that blends  
with the toil of common hands,  
echoing the heartbeats of a million dreams.

We’re waiting, you know,  
for something more than a show,  
for leaders not lost in ideals,  
but grounded in the dirt we tread,  
building from the roots,  
with voices strong,  
and futures ripe with vision.