Borick

by Alan Morrison, with image by Martin Gollan

Let the bodies pile high!
Let the bottles pile high!
Now Boris hobbles off
With his Golden goodbye—

He's off to get his biog
On Shakespeare ghost-written
By Noggin the Nog,
Old Hamlet, & a kitten...

Let the bodies pile high!
Let the bottles pile high!
I'll be leaving soon
With my head held high—

& so he will have to
As he wades neck-deep
Through the excrement
Of his legacy—

So he sloshes from office
To eye-watering offers
For after-dinner speeches,
& six-figure columns,

His hotly tipped memoirs
Already commanding
Advances of a million—
It seems remembering

Can be Boris's thing
If the price is right—otherwise
He forgets, or misremembers,
Or believes his own lies

Or has others believe them:
His fibs over Brexit,
& levelling up—
Porkies from the greased piglet;

O Boris's future
Is Golden for sure—
For his whole life's been Golden:
Raised for sinecure,

Through Eton, & Balliol,
& Bullingdon Club–-
Born with a runcible
Spoon in his gob—

Insubordinate, yobbish,
Boisterous, snobbish,
Blond mop of sophism,
Bluster & boosterism,

Kingpin of cronyism,
Sexism, narcissism,
Tsar of casual racism—
Letterbox & watermelon—

Trumpety-trumps into orbit
To pen his political obit
(Though he's already planning
A comeback before going),

Hyperbolic cherrypick,
Pecksniffian panegyric—
Peter Piper Picked a Peck
Of Pickled Pepper lyric...

O the future is Golden for Boris,
But not, alas, poor Yorick—
That is, the scoured skull of Us:
His used-up soft-soaped put upon pot-&-pan-
banging hand-clapping bowl-scraping Public...