Crossing the Floor
Divided, it seems, by just two sword lengths
Are green benched Capulets and Montagues,
Who, in vitriolic rivalry stew
As vexed ambition flexes its strength.
Whether feeling neglected, rejected
Or some bitter sense of injured pride,
One crosses the floor to the other side,
Where greater rewards might be expected.
This act of principle or betrayal
Is mitigated by the growing sense
That it makes little or no difference,
As every Commons cause is doomed to fail.
No matter what the rivals do or say,
Capital profits, and must have its way.
D. A.