The signs were fertile, rich and fecund
Grayling in his cloud of grey
Took charge for nearly thirty seconds.
That was in the good old day.
Grayling in his dullard’s mask
Felt how fortune’s fickle, innit,
Felt how great and grand the task:
A whole career in half a minute.
Fame may call, and greatness flower:
Grayling’s rule was deep and subtle:
A hundred-and-twentieth of an hour
Before his ship began to scuttle.
When life’s as long as Twitter feeds
And Grayling is a helpless dope,
The honest heart within us bleeds,
And there is scarcely any hope.
Incompetence is not a virtue,
And Mrs May’s no thoughtful Sphinx.
You fool, we think, watch Luck desert you,
Though Grayling’s had his thirty winks.