Aloft they sit in curvèd, stilted sight.
Such experts as might be brought to expound
Upon whatever subjects come to light
Wherein politic terrors may abound.
Amid them all a man with snowy hair
And ties as wondrous as the world might see,
Who fixes each one with his steely glare
Inducing in them all a wish to flee.
But more than they, the watchers rule the roost
As, questioning, they test the panel’s will
To give their own agendas some small boost.
For answers, though, the watchers press them still.
‘Tis rare that any answers quell the doubt
Once Question Time is done and all head out.