Hark The Harold
Welcome back, Harold. How goes it?
And how does it look, where you are –
Are you waiting to see how Blair blows it?
Are you sneaking a crafty cigar?
Your pipe was a prop, on your rostrum,
Which created some fabulous fug.
Your successor blows steam from his nostrum,
Inhaled from sweet tea (in his mug).
The Government's not as you ran it,
Kitchen cabinets? – buried and dead.
When they fix it and spin it and plan it,
They sit down in an office instead.
Donors don't wind up with honours,
And patronage doesn't exist.
A new age has dawned; it's upon us.
There isn't a lavender list.
Yes, the change is complete, it is utter,
And the deputy dog is G. Brown –
It's as different as Stork is from butter.
It's a totally different town.
You're Scilly Isles; he's Berlusconi,
And a villa (nice view of the sea).
No Gannex. It's chinos for Tony,
(Though the country still runs on HP).
