A Specious Relationship
In those tobacco days of yore
(Not that Trump remembers. He
Has greater fantasies in store),
You’d say Light Up An Embassy,
And who but One Top Faragista
To take his place as Donald’s fag?
To say, “Hi Don, I’ve come here pissed. A-
pols. My diplomatic bag
Is groaning like saloon bar quippers:
Let’s sink a row of bitter jokes –
When it’s breakfast, you need Kippers,
Plenty scratchings, plenty smokes.”
(And Trump would love this adventure. He
Likes to dabble, thumb his nose.
“Nigel? A plenipotentiary!
From St. James’s! One of those!”)
And here’s Farage, in tails and spats,
With the grin that’s like a ferry boarding –
His velvet collar sleek and flat,
And policies straight from a hoarding –
At night the lights burn in The White House,
America, Britain, smoke cigars,
Agree the world’s a foreign shitehouse,
Leaning on Oval Office bars –
“Reclaim our states!” – like confidantes,
They share their wall-talk, head to head,
Ambassadors. And Rosencrantz
And Guildenstern are doubly dead.