the weekly

The Candidate

My virtue is consistency

(Like sandwich spread or lard);

I fire on two pistons, see –

And I am well, well hard.


O full of scorpions is my mind!

I’m neither left nor right;

I was not born to humankind

And sired deep in night.


I do not like all foreigners,

But spray them, half-effusive;

I also loathe all sporraners,

Unless they seem conducive.


My words are never weaselly,

So judge them on their merits

(In fact, as I say breezily,

They’re really polecat ferrets).


Be innocent, my dearest chuck,

Of all my quiet guile:

I really cannot give a fuck.

It’s frankly not my style.


Saw you the three weird sisters? –

With devils I have supped:

My tongue is thick with blisters;

I’m totally corrupt.


So fair and foul a day it is

Now I’ve said I will run –

Now is no time for gaieties,

No time for laughter, fun,


For I will grind my enemies

Into a tasteless chowder,

And offer all my venom. Please

To eat this vicious powder,


For I have murdered sleep, and I

Have clutched the dagger’s blade,

And all of this upon the sly.

I beg you, be afraid.




The Candidate

The Tory succession race got under way, surprisingly without Boris Johnson. There were many Shakespearean references to Michael Gove’s decision to stand, mainly to do with Brutus. But Brutus’s story ended unhappily, of course.

30 June 2016


Home/Join | List | Next | Previous | Random