Poem: BoJomian Rhapsody


Battle-Bus Boris
Used to ride a bike
But head down, arse up
Looks so unstatesmanlike

Brussels-Bashing Boris
Some say he now ‘pedals untruths’
Taps into middle-aged nostalgia
For their pre-common market youths

And looking back and looking back
Green Shield Stamps, Old English Spangles
Washer-Women in the street
Thick-arms that wound the mangles

Bombshell Boris
Says the EU’s akin to Hitler
Did the ‘Little Englander’ mentality
Just get that bit littler?

But we don’t know, no, we don’t know
Not you, nor I. Confess!
Like Boris’ hair, which way t’will go
We can only guess

Brexiteer Boris
Dreams he’ll make PM one day
Or even – King of Torylandia!
The State that broke away

New York-Born Boris
Eschews Americana
And wants no more EU dictates
On the size of his banana

Oh he’s a one, yes, he’s a one
They call him jovial and wacky
More like a Eurovision song, I’d say
Overloud and tacky

(”That part-Kenyan, Churchill hater!”)
Warned ITV of ‘repercussions’
If they provide the wrong debater

BoJo The Clown
As his make-up starts to run
It’s just another bloody bully-boy
From the Club of Bullingdon

And the very thought, the very thought
Of a Remain-won referendum
Sends ‘Little Boris’ shrinking, back
Into it’s (muzzy blonde?) pudendum

Flag-Waving Boris
Holds aloft, a Cornish Pasty
Get out the Jellied Eels and Faggots
That bus must smell all kinds of nasty

And I don’t know, and I don’t know
What the locals eat in Dorset
But he’d better pace himself, or by
The Midlands, need a corset

And looking back and looking back
Through rose-tinted viewfinders
Thrupenny bits and proper pubs
Run by Peaky Blinders

He’s The Vote-Leave Vigilante
A Eurosceptic Charlie Bronson
AKA: Alexander
Boris de Pfeffel Johnson


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