Apologies to Sir Henry Newbolt
There's a breathless hush in the hall to-night
Ten to make and the wards to win
A rock-hard chair and a blinding screen,
An hour to wait, and the last votes in.
And it's all for the sake of a mayoral chain.
And the desperate hope of a season's seat,
But his comrade's hand on his shoulder smote
"Stay up! Stay up! And watch the count!"
The face of the map is sodden red
Red with the wreck of
campaigns that broke
The voting's done and the wards are gone,
And the comrades blind with dust and smoke.
The river of gatvol has brimmed its banks,
Uhuru's far and Long Live a name,
But the voice of a comrade rallies the ranks-
"Stay up! Stay up! And watch the count!"
This is the word that each five years,
While in her mould the party's set,
Every one of her sons must hear,
And none that hears it dare have doubt.
This they all with focused mind
Must bear through life like a plaque in flame,
failing fling to the cadre behind-
"Stay up! Stay up! And watch the count!"
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