A Sonnet on the Process of Question Time

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.

 

 

 

 

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