Blue Frog


Ribbit. I’m a bright blue frog

That squats inside this gob:

The fibs in here are thick as fog.

The tongue’s a vicious slob –


Yet here I sit, upon his drool,

And listen to dog-Latin,

His polysyllables. The fool –

The largest that I’ve sat in.


Ribbit. We can spend the cash,

He says we’ve saved, no less,

Upon a brand new nursing bash,

To float the NHS:


Says he, who called his quarter-mill

No more than chicken feed,

For writing columns, words that spill

From geysers of old greed.


Ribbit. I blow poison darts

Into the national ear,

Or suffocate, with verbal farts,

All-comers far or near.


Who’s the frog and whose the tongue?

I don’t know which is which.

Out of weeds his words are flung –

And drag you to the ditch.






Bonus poem


The Love Song of Henry D. Bolton, OBE


Let us go, then, Jo and me,

When the executive is burned out beside the sea

Like a sunset memorialised in cheap crayon.

Let us go, while in our pomp,

To drain the swamp.

Oh, do not fit me with a boater,

Ask me all about the quota.


In the night, assassins come and go,

Complaining about the mistletoe.


And should I be baffled, after all the mirrors,

After the purple-and-yellow rosettes,

The cheap smoke rising at the very end of the pier?

Shall I part the waves? Are peaches imported?

I have heard the voices, and I am thwarted.

The stories about my mermaid are distorted.

I do not think she will ever ring me.



Click here for a Metro story (the blue frog)


Click here for Johnson’s speech


Click here for a Guardian article about Johnson


Click here for The Sun on Henry Bolton


15 February 2018

Zoo-keepers have successfully bred a bright blue poison dart frog in Britain. Boris Johnson wrote of of the EU as a “teleological construction”, and of spending the “Brexit bonus” on the NHS.


Bonus poem: Party leader Henry Bolton has to survive a UKIP emergency general meeting, after the loss of confidence in his leadership. He recently left his wife for a young woman in her twenties, Jo Marney (whether she is now his ‘ex’ is a matter of tabloid debate). Apologies to T.S. Eliot.


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