My hands are cold, my flesh is creep
I count black sheep to stave off sleep
Observe this nervous, vicious tic
For I'm the leader you should pick

My ducking stool, my brackish pool!
The foul air round my coven's cool
My treacly squeak is supersonic
Come drink my dark, bubonic tonic

I'm on the right side of the road
A toad who knows his highway code
Provide my side with all your vote
For I'm a dark Satanic goat

I wear a pointy hat in bed
I look well-bred but I'm undead
Regard my charred and extra nipple
Oh vote for me, you lucky pipple!

[May 1997]

From Labour Pangs

Michael Howard's supporters wanted "something more detailed" from Ann Widdecombe than saying he was "somehow the son of Satan"