Where’s Theresa, where is she?
Beamed up? Or merely banished?
Perhaps she’s gone across the sea.
Perhaps vamoosed. Or vanished.
Perhaps the questions she ignored
Have choked her inner thistle.
Perhaps she fell upon her sword
When Boris said ‘Go whistle’.
Yes, her words were risible,
Yes, her words were weird,
And now she is invisible.
(At least, she’s disappeared.)
Or has the hot air swallowed her?
Was she consumed by guff?
Perhaps assassins followed her,
And called her hollow bluff.
Perhaps she wanders, swathed in gauze,
Away from natural light,
Beyond the parliamentary laws,
A creature of the night.
Perhaps her Ulster managers
Grew angry and disowned her:
What’s that? What is this wraith? Who stirs?
They’ve only gone and cloned her.