Amid his festive revels,
Cameron rolled his devilled porky pies,
put down his glass, reluctantly,
to heave his unbecomingly
chillaxèd arse and rosy snout,
and demonstrate his sympathy,
Dave duly whipped his COBRA out
[well, ’tis the Season for repeats]
and chaired a dial-up meet…
the Northern Poorhouse really pumps me up!
and Oik says it’s no time to go all soft about distress;
that we must fix this mess without reversing
any of his cuts and he suggests I pop a team
aloft my chopper, just to mop the recent flood
of this unprecedented, hostile-growing Press.
‘Pretend to care; to share concern.
Claim we’re doing all we can;
praise our Big Society for learning
to do more with less; blame
extremist weather, coming over here
and cheer, again, the wisdom of
our long-term economic plan.
‘Right, Roger that?’
‘For TINA!’ urged the staff, straight back.
Thus, Dave, to save his bacon,
[not the people he’s forsaking
by the resource droughts he’s making]
stiff’d his British value sinews;
donned his Everyman dry wellies
and a posture for some telly clout;
flew to cock a bold blue snook
and wave his cold, damp squib about.