Ribbit. I’m a bright blue frog
That squats inside this gob:
The fibs in here are thick as fog.
The tongue’s a vicious slob –
Yet here I sit, upon his drool,
And listen to dog-Latin,
His polysyllables. The fool –
The largest that I’ve sat in.
Ribbit. We can spend the cash,
He says we’ve saved, no less,
Upon a brand new nursing bash,
To float the NHS:
Says he, who called his quarter-mill
No more than chicken feed,
For writing columns, words that spill
From geysers of old greed.
Ribbit. I blow poison darts
Into the national ear,
Or suffocate, with verbal farts,
All-comers far or near.
Who’s the frog and whose the tongue?
I don’t know which is which.
Out of weeds his words are flung –
And drag you to the ditch.
The Love Song of Henry D. Bolton, OBE
Let us go, then, Jo and me,
When the executive is burned out beside the sea
Like a sunset memorialised in cheap crayon.
Let us go, while in our pomp,
To drain the swamp.
Oh, do not fit me with a boater,
Ask me all about the quota.
In the night, assassins come and go,
Complaining about the mistletoe.
And should I be baffled, after all the mirrors,
After the purple-and-yellow rosettes,
The cheap smoke rising at the very end of the pier?
Shall I part the waves? Are peaches imported?
I have heard the voices, and I am thwarted.
The stories about my mermaid are distorted.
I do not think she will ever ring me.