Dear Tristram, I have read your script:
You sound extravagantly pipped,
And, by the words that you deploy,
It seems you are a sulky boy –
Suggesting now that ‘going forward’
(Use the jargon! Any bore would!)
The Cambridge brains, who represent
A very vital 1%,
Should rise up in their board and gown
And take the Labour front bench down –
The better thus, I catch your drift,
That you and others likewise miffed
Should park their bums upon the seats,
To send out many useless tweets
About how you will save the world
But keep the bright red banner furled.
Tristram, what you’ve hit upon
Is that you are your paragon,
The one who meets all your criteria
For being properly superior –
A man who knows what plans are best,
Who scores high when he sets the test:
We know you’re sometimes very crass,
As when you made yourself an ass
Asking teachers to swear gaily
That they were loyal, do this daily.
You now suggest you are élite
(Since you were Cantab.), can’t be beat –
Although the one who gained your job*
Is Oxford fodder, and no snob –
And add in, for the bloody bargain
A piece of useless business jargon.
The fact is that, why I support
J. Corbyn is, the very thought
Of you in any sort of power
Made me decide to leave your shower
For what I think is sterling rain.
I won’t be coming back again,
And Tristram, if you think this shit,
Perhaps you’d care to say you quit.
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