Spring Time For Boris

Now is the winter of Tory discontent

Made glorious summer by this son of Trump;

And all the clouds that lour’d upon Clarrie’s flat

In the deep bosom of John Lewis buried.

Now are his lies upheld as victorious wreaths;

His murderous mistakes as monuments to his rule.

Our stern reprovals are met with merry disregard,

His betrayals are laughed away.

Brexit and the pandemic hath smooth’d his path to power;

And now, instead of blathering on in Parliament

To the disdain of a sneering Opposition,

He capers nimbly before a grateful nation

To the mendacious tunes of Making Britain Great Again.

But he, that is not trained to sportive tricks,

Nor made to court a fickle crowd;

He, that is too much stamp’d by practice of the law,

To offer ‘porkies’ to feed a ravenous mob;

He, that is curtail’d of this fair mendacity,

Cheated of a foul dissembling nature,

Honest, unblemished, sent innocent 

Into this seething world, scarce half prepared,

And that so lamely and unfashionable

That Momentum do bark at him when e’re he pass,

Why, he, in this deceitful time of lies,

Hath no delight to pass away the time,

In telling that blue is red or red is blue.

Therefore, is he determined to be a leader;

To take upon himself the burdens of defeat

And thus declare, “Angela, you’re sacked”.

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