Friday, 14 June 2019

People Who Seemed Like Good Blokes Are Actually Just Tossers. (Tory Leadership Contest)


People who seemed like really good chaps
are actually just arseholes,
disappointing in so many ways.
Those who seemed really decent
have morphed into utter twats, in recent days,
they have cast themselves in a new light,
some are actually deranged.
I’m not sure why, self serving prats
ever gave me the impression they were good souls,
when they were just tossers.  Perhaps
I have been blessed with new vision,
clarity of thought, insight,
but on the whole, I don’t think it’s me who’s changed

Monday, 10 June 2019

Aga



Like Gustav Holst, you’re Swedish by descent
and yet, so English that the ‘Q’ word’s used,
you’ve come to symbolise a deep content,
you’re warm and homely, yet we are confused,
since running you requires such quantities
of cash, our love can lead us to resent
your needs.  

Like many Swedes you’re typically blonde,
and like a Viking, often battle scarred,
you’re one of us, and so we’ve grown quite fond
of droning on about your faults, you’re tarred
and grimed with built up carbon, and you’re aged
with freckles, speckled brown.   You don’t respond.

You stay as silent as a got-at spouse,
and do your job as you see fit and persevere.
You are the central figure in the country house,
imperfect, comforting, you draw us near,
and yet you’re not entirely dependable,
and using you requires a certain nous.
















Tuesday, 4 June 2019

Mr Shortarse Regrets

Mr Shortarse regrets,
he’s unable to banquet today, Ma’am,
being only 5’7” 
he’d not even attend one in Heaven,
because it might do his self image harm.
He won’t be seen with the Queen
and the orange, American president.
The President’s so big,
the Donald’s six foot three.
Mr Shortarse intends
they shall never be friends,
he’ll not succumb to a ‘Fascist’s’ charm
and what would they say at the BBC?

Yet still, he’ll have his say:
Mr Shortarse, will join with his short arsed peers,
and speak to the crowds instead.
He’ll not give thanks to the dead,
who’ve lain in their graves these 75 years,
and for whom he cares not a fig.

For he couldn’t set a precedent
and be seen with taller men, 
believing he’ll soon be resident
at lovely number 10:
Mr Shortarse regrets
he’s unable to banquet today.