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Boom, boom, it was a metaphor,

A length of honest rope –

A phrase we’ll all feel better for,

A very pleasing trope –


It makes you think, explosively,

With grim but gay abandon

Of when a man blown up like me

Has not a leg to stand on –


I wear my suicidal pants:

They creak. Their guy-ropes snap.

Inflated by my clever rants,

I deal you reams of crap.


I have myself and by the throttle,

And kill myself with quips:

There’s poison in my brittle bottle –

I’ve had my final chips.


With gas so rancid am I filled

That, should I meet my match,

I should of course (do check my build)

Go bang. I am the Thatch


In waiting, hoping death by fire

Will burn me into ash.

I am a loud, compulsive liar,

What Yankees call blond trash.


This detonating belt is mine.

I’ll be a million pieces

Of blood and guts, but never spine,

And lorryloads of faeces.



Click here for a Guardian article





Boris Johnson called Theresa May’s plan for Brexit ‘a suicide vest’.

11 September 2018


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