Come back, our Tony, and all is forgiven:
I'm thinking of you as you're thinking to me.
When you've passed over, and Labour is riven
By splits, it's a cert that we'll miss you, you see.
The medium's your message. And all of the media
Are ordering crystals and a spirit-world guide.
Gordon himself is investing in ouija;
Everyone waits for your new other side.
Collect ectoplasm, and store it, and freeze it –
You'll be out of the world, but not out of a job:
Your time may be up, but please will you seize it –
We need all that nonsense that streams from your gob.
Perhaps you will speak in subliminal fashion,
Perhaps through a bush which is burning in style.
But contact us, bodiless, even if ashen,
Undead (which you've been, so they say, for a while).
Yes, come back, our Tony, and do not forget us:
Ask Doris Stokes what she spins on her loom.
Move the glass. Let it run round the table, choose letters,
While we sit holding hands in your gathering gloom.