Boris Johnson danced in
On the head of opinions
In Blighty
Made frightfully mighty
By members for minions
A man-child the king
Of some wild optimistic dominions
And every damned thing

And Dudica duly revolted
Assaulting the Foursome
By spaffing his Cummings
To ruffle their crinions
And make them be awesome
And, thus, by a stunning
Distorted endorsement
The revelling cult of a dishevelled sun
Did ruin the Union for everyone


Hunt, to be blunt

But Hunt, to be blunt
Is a Freudian slip
Twixt thought and lip
With his pinch-me-am-I-dreaming
Beaming, champing at the bit
For the most expensive hump
In the Brexit bed of tricks

His wobble-head pumped
With arousal-heavy heart
For the Tory race to desiccate
Our sensitive parts
As the tub-thumpers, who
Would pimp and screw us too,
View Johnson as a more entertaining tart

Boris believes his own bus

Boris believes his own bus
Got a package of promises for everyone of us

It’s gonna be a hoot
Taking the scenic route
Uplands are sunny
And isn’t it funny
Just how many times and on how many things
He can spend the same money

Wooo, here comes a corner
To wipe off the grins
And waaay, it’s downhill
From now on and we’re
Into another bend
Sleeping bag, underwear
Crap flying everywhere
When will it ever end
Please make it stop
Ah, the cliff edge
Thank god
And over we go…

No wonder he pledged
Like there’d be no tomorrow