It’s dark in the assembly bay.
The launching’s still some days away.
Hydraulic rumbles mute the thump
Of the buildings primary pump.
The vessel rising on the slips
Moves tiny hand to tiny lips
And, giving hint of what’s to come,
Opening wide pokes in its thumb.
Twelve years find this self-same lad
Hooked on the habit just as bad.
No scolding, bribe or finger stall
Has been of any use at all.
When tiredness comes or stress is there
A forefinger winds up his hair
With index finger round his nose
Into his mouth that thumb still goes.
Another thirty years have flown
Established in business on his own.
From local politics he’s been
Raised up to the national scene.
A coming man, but none-the-less,
There’s pressure mixed with that success.
Often in private (may I say?)
That same old thumb comes into play.