Poor George. Hear his soul start to hurtle
Into history’s vacuum and void.
He’s performed all the turns of a turtle:
Now his brain will be under-employed.
They’re talking of hiring embalmers,
To preserve him, but stifle the stench –
We’ll be able to gaze at his charm as
He’s propped up upon the front bench.
Now George has a singular pecker
But all loners must suffer their fates:
When you deal with the national exchequer
No-one’s prepared to be mates.
Having given his planning the hard-sell,
Poor George is considered a ghost:
Reduced to a terribly scarred shell,
As stiff as an old piece of toast.
Maybe they’ll make him a waxwork,
To hold future U-turns in check –
A reminder how not to make tax work,
A memento, alas, of his neck.
Click here for a story in The Guardian