The big guns turned in heavy air;
The sky was dark, the water blue –
But raiders breached the dam four-square
The night that Gordon bombed in Crewe.
It's true that Gordon often chokes,
Is blessed with countenance so low
That ministers have told him jokes
In hope that healing tears might flow.
Some hoped such sobs would warm the blood,
Would tug the people's flinty heart –
But none foresaw the fearful flood
When Gordon bombed the plug apart.
Old Labour built the bouncing bomb;
New Labour span it – ducks and drakes –
And launched it with a loud aplomb.
It was the worst of their mistakes.
Now Gordon's crew glimpse gaping holes
And – dammit! – how their red eyes blur,
For Gordon's falling down the polls,
And Britain's like a flooded Ruhr.
Deep waters, these. All over Nantwich,
Dambuster bluster burst on through,
And laughing Con-men raise a rant which
Opens 'Gordon bombed in Crewe'.