The People's Poet, Benjamin Zephyr Zodiac, has regained consciousness long enough to deliver a rousing election message...

It has worked. Finally. The world's 21-month long agony is over. Late last night, I and an assortment of West London's most progressive thinkers were clustered (as we are most nights) around the hospital bed in which our great friend and teacher, the world-renowned Dub Poet, Benjamin Zephyr Zodiac (known as BZZ, Benjie or The Master to his friends and admirers, as Wutless,  Mengkeh, or Duncy bat to his countless ex-wives and "baby maddas" - and as Reginald Augustus Wellington Pules to the tax authorities). We were listening to the monotonous beeps of the various monitors attached to BZZ's wasted body and the occasional gurgles of his weapons-grade medical marijuana and Red Stripe Premium Lager drip-feeds...

...sunk in gloom at the prospect of this horrible, divisive, racist, fascist country of ours suffering another five years under the stiletto heels of Theresa "Literally Hitler" May, when, on the very stroke of midnight, we all heard an ethereal, buzzing sound, and a single, trembling beam of light suddenly pierced the window to illuminate the frail body of the world's greatest living poet.

As it tuned out, the disturbance was the result of a drone attempting to deliver supplies of "spice" to a nearby prison, but, of course, we didn't know that at the time. "He's awake!" someone gasped. Sure enough, the Great Man's sad, compassionate, yellow eyes had opened and his lips were moving. Barging through the excited throng, I reached him first. "What is it, Benjie?" I half-shouted. "Dat 'Sir' to you, batty bwoy," he croaked. "Take dis down!" I snapped my fingers and one of BZZ's acolytes handed me an enormous spliff. "No, you fool - writing implements...hurry!" "Literacy is oppression," somebody spat out. "Yeah, it's how 'they' keep control," another agreed.

"Just tell me, Sir - I'll remember every word," I assured him. Here is what he whispered to me:

Liberation Day

"Bruddas, de Tories has called an election
An' for we, so an' I an' I would say on reflection,
Our votin' is one
Of approval, selection
Or removal, rejection,
A choice
Between de devil's siren voice
Or de path to Socialism's perfection 

On the day of 9th June
De Tories' punctured balloon
Will meet its death
By exhalin' its final breath
Singin' a Conservative tune,
Set to de treble clef
Of doom.

An then, Bruddas, we gwan implement de Jeremy manifesto
Jus' as sure as Che's real first name was Ernesto
An anti-pasto,
To an economic jambalaya a la Chavez and Castro
A meal which de British people gwan consume wid gusto,
Until we stomachs is fit to busto.

Now bruddas, on 8 June
It behoves
We fe to turn out in droves,
An' say bumpa claat to de Baldwins, Macmillans, Douglas-Homes,
And Goves
An' turn Jeremy's miracle of 40 loaves
An' fishes
Into dishes,
Of a strong an' virtuous brew
To slate de appetite of de many, not de few.

Cos mos' certain de Tories gwan gerrymander,
Poison de yout' wid dem wickid propaganda,
Plot the demise of the Infanta,
Deny de economic success of Idi Amin in Uganda,
An' play no respeck to de peaceful transition of Nyasaland to democratic Malawi at de hands of Dr Hastings Banda,
Both of they heaven sent
Fe to rescue
Me bruddas' righteous continent

So, as I an' I mus' say, we mus' not surrendah,
To this criminal agendah
Even when dem try to stick us nuts in de blendah
An rendah
Us emasculated,
Fe they have wrongly calculated
De result to which dem manifesto is fated
An' in a final kick to dem privilege pudendum
We gwan reverse de result of dem illegal an' unconstitutional referendum.

An I would fe to say to our sistahs
Rejoice for we are the new the Sandinistas
Ignore the blisters of your toil
For surely we shall soothe them with the righteous leftness of our sacramental oil
And as a reward fe your fealty
You will surely have a seat at de back of de kitchen to watch de TV as Jeremy walkin' up de Mall to meet de outmoded royalty
No limousine for he,
No horse-drawn pomp an' flummery
Of de arastock...artisoch...rich people
A government fe to form
Outside de norm
A new dawn
A jewel to adorn
A brand new morn,
A future assured, a people insured
Against the lure
Of the capitalist yoke
Nevah mo' fe to choke
Us unto we final breath.

But now a Tory death
Is what awaiteth
Them

An' t'ing."

After uttering the final line, he slipped gently back into arms of Morpheus. As I fervently clasped his bony hand, I closed my eyes and was sobbing out the lyrics of that great secular hymn, "Imagine", when Alan Yentob (who I had inadvertently stepped on in my determination to be the first to reach Benjie's side) slapped the back of my head and demanded to know what BZZ had said.

Wiping the tears from my cheeks I stood up and turned to face my band of brothers, sisters and non-binaries, opened my mouth... and realised, with horror, that the sheer power of the image "treble clef of doom" and the phrase "Until we stomachs is fit to busto" - not to mention the idea of having one's nuts stuck in a blender - had swept every other word of the poem from my head.

"I...can't remember," I eventually admitted. "Group hug?" But they evidently weren't in a particularly huggy mood, and I rather fear I might have been bodily ejected from the 16th floor of the George Soros Clinic for Ailing Anti-Globalist Revolutionaries via the window had one of us - a madly-grinning, colourfully-attired, somewhat portly, omni-ethnic female friend of Alan's - not started waving their mobile in the air, trilling, "Never fear - Batman's here! Recorded every word!"

Alan somewhat spoiled the resulting wave of collective euphoria by turning to me and snarling, "God, you really are a useless..." I really can't remember the rest. Anyway, we immediately phoned the Labour Party press office and played the recording to a rather angry young Momentum activist, but he dismissed it as a pile of crap, screamed "Die, Tory scum!", and hung up. We rang The Morning Star, only for a disgruntled-sounding Northern woman to inform us that "Poetry's for public school ponces!" We finally tried the Daily Mirror, but they just wanted to know how BZZ could have known there was an election on if he'd been in a coma since 2015. I tried to argue that his subconscious must have picked up the information from Radio 4, which is on in the rooms for 15 hours a day (with no way of turning it off). "Nice try, grandad," he sneered. And that was that. So we've had to publish it here, on the most influential political blog of this era. The proprietor is an unprogressive stinker of the worst sort - but I will do anything to get the message across to the British people before it's too late: "Vote Corbyn - This horrible country deserves it!"