Things work both ways, of course.
And so the EU left our language,
waited not for any half-mumbled logy,
bade no adi .
And the rosceptics,
felt no phoria,
outmano vred as they were.
Words found themselves misconstrued.
There were bitter f ds
raised fists, Fr dian slips,
few remained n tral.
Unemployment rose –
amongst mass rs, chauff rs, n roscientists –
and mus ms closed.
The country got roomier
and rh mier,
a mausol m to memories of imperial grand r,
mixing racial slurs
with a sip from a glass of Pimms
and a snip of secat rs.
I am sorry but I cannot accept the post of Prime Minister,
For there is little in my history that’s suitably sinister,
No financial irregularities, no offshore accounts,
No stock-piling of wealth in ever larger amounts.
No public school background, no Oxford, no Cambridge;
No late night liaisons with the head of a pig.
My character’s flawed also, it pains me to say;
I lie – at best – only three times a day,
I have shown compassion, empathy, contrition,
So I’m afraid I am unsuited for this position.
I am sorry but I cannot accept the post of England Manager,
For whilst I tick the box entitled ‘well-meaning amateur‘,
I worry that my grasp of tactics is too strong,
That I might be able to understand what is wrong
And how to change it. I can also be meticulous
In my preparations, a trait which would be ridiculous
In any manager. I have a track record of winning games,
By creating teams, not just picking names,
And getting them to stick the ball in the goal,
So I’m afraid I am unsuited for this role.
Wearing my most daring
tank top, I arrived downstairs
just before quarter to eight;
the invitations I’d sent out
ten days before
had clearly stated it started
at seven thirty-four.
I put on Russians by Sting.
It wasn’t long
were in full swing.
As so often, on such occasions,
I made for the kitchen,
with the Pringles,
who were delightful,
and twenty rather nonchalant
Six skittish tins of Fosters
enticed me back
into the sitting room
to join in with the party games:
Hold the Parcel (forty-two minutes),
followed by a few rounds
of Musical Statues
(defeated each time
by a po-faced Victorian floor lamp),
a game of Sardine,
in which I hid
inside the airing cupboard,
for three days
on an inexpertly-folded fitted sheet
until I found myself.
My parents always taught me that it’s good to share,
what’s mine is yours and what’s fair is fair,
but now these teachings have taken a bump
since I discovered my shared birthday with Donald J. Trump.
With others there is much that I’m prepared to share —
my thoughts, my friends, my lunch, this chair,
my wi-fi password, my cat, my bicycle pump —
but I will not share my birthday with Donald J. Trump.
So I shall fortify the fourteenth of June,
build a wall to keep out this bigoted loon,
too strong to knock down and too high to jump;
I shall not share my birthday with Donald J. Trump.
The careers of politicians
consist of three main positions,
which I shall now supply:
they stand, they sit, they lie.
What the debates have taught me,
whether Brexit or Remain:
the realm of British politics
is a squalid, mean domain.
To help him feel composed,
he imagined the audience clothed.
O do not ask
if I am beach body ready.
Observe how the folds
of my stomach ripple
like the wind-pulled waves.
Feel these pale buttocks,
smoothed by the sand-grains
Note these milk-white limbs,
useless and stranded,
washed up whalebones.
Consider the tufts of hair
which sprout on my shoulders
And listen to the lapping
of my socks
at the shores of my sandals.
And you ask me
if I am beach body ready?
Her interest in him
then gradually eroded.
Like an update
to Adobe Reader,
he’d never be downloaded.