Boris Bikes Back
I’ve always said I need my stars
To play upon the pitch –
When on the bench or in the bars,
They only bark and bitch:
I want them in my private clubs,
Not spending time as super-subs.
Boris? What a man of morals,
Of Greek and also Latin,
Not the sort to spark off quarrels,
Nor crave the seat I’m sat in –
He’s good TV, a blue-blood gent.
I’d love him back in Parliament.
Let him fill the leather seats
And shake his ash-blonde mane –
Read my football-reference tweets –
He’s Gazza, he’s my Wayne.
He’s the Tory party’s mascot,
As pure as Ladies’ Day at Ascot.
It doesn’t matter he’ll be paid
Two whacking salaries –
It’s worth it for his wise old head
To shoot the Tory breeze.
He is my striker, centre, goalie,
A player folk consider holy.
Boris is a mere buffoon?
An idiot? And a clown?
You’ll earn yourself a wooden spoon
To run dear Boris down.
[Enough. Please let more laughing gas in.
And hire me your best assassin.]