Swellegy
Swellegy
Farewell Boris, overthrown, a
Man without a flaw or fault:
Not as if you would condone a
Case of sexual assault,
Not as if your noble bluster
Or your fund of Latin squibs
Or your constant filibuster
Ever seemed a pack of fibs.
Bathing in some cheap effulgence
When you graced a leaving-do,
The dying elsewhere craved indulgence
But what on earth was that to you?
Who would blame you? You were super,
Eating cake and swilling wine:
Only a stupid party-pooper
Would call upon you to resign.
No longer will your fingers riffle
Through that self-confected straw,
Nor will your pyramids of piffle
Bore the voters any more:
As you say, your fans are legion,
Voting for your charm and wit.
It seems unfair that in each region,
People say you’re full of shit.
When they caught you in the spotlight,
Wall-papering across the cracks,
They were mean, and they were not right:
Their ad hominem attacks
Did not mirror all your gentle,
Jolly web of cheap intrigue.
Those who said that you were mental:
They were never in your league.
And now you must eat chickenfeed,
Tuck dollars in suspender belts,
And exercise your perfect greed
And blame the way the cards were dealt:
At last, Nil desperandum (Horace) –
We’ll use shovels, clear your mess.
Take your baseball bat home, Boris;
And leave us here to convalesce.
