The Woes of Boris Johnson

Johnson the PM sat in Number 10,

And wondered if things would be normal again,

In three or four weeks, the world had turned mad,

Not bright though he was, he could tell it was bad.

Stockpiles depleted, the NHS stretched,

Death toll projections no longer farfetched.

Loo roll and flour no longer were seen,

Shoppers in crisis were nasty and mean.

The government’s policy crushed by opinion,

No herd immunity for this dominion.

Bars and pubs closed, though airports were not,

So people came in even if they had got

The virus, the plague, the assassin so silent,

Made visible only when coughing got violent,

Doctors and nurses were on the frontline,

As were key workers, on pounds less than nine,

The government’s message then became clear:

‘Stay Home (and you will have nothing to fear)’.

But one man in power, he looked at the rules,

And took all the rest of the nation for fools.

An eagle-eyed teacher caught wind of this scheme,

And many foresaw an end to the regime

Of a man unelected, with fingers in pies,

Who many have claimed peddles secrets and lies.

Let’s join him inside the Prime Minister’s office,

Where Johnson was torn over cutting his losses.

He sat at the desk with his head in his hand,

Hoping that Dominic would understand.

‘Cummings, my friend, Cummings’, said he,

‘I feel just as awfully lost as can be,

I’ve frankly no inkling of what’s to be done,

How to govern this nation I’m elected to run,

The people on one side, but then on the other,

My desires, my needs, my lack of a mother,

My boarding school terrors that haunt me at night,

I cannot get rid of them, try as I might,

Perhaps that is where it all started to slide,

Morals and ethics were buried by pride,

Show weakness – that’s death (metaphorically speaking)

Boarding school boys have a talent for wreaking

Havoc on those they perceive to be prey,

I’m not sure I like it but that’s just the way

Things are done in this country, glorious Blighty,

You’re nothing unless you were born high and mighty,

Perhaps that’s where I let my path trail out of sight,

And got used to what’s wrong and ignoring what’s right,

This maxim I stick to, in times of pandemic,

And frankly I don’t think it’s really polemic,

Dosh over lives, what’s so wrong with that?

This island is crowded, from where I am sat,

A few thousand fewer, what’s the difference to me,

There’ll still be enough pensioners to guarantee,

My next dark blue Tory majority.

And Cummings my friend, you’d made this a pickle,

By driving to Durham you’ve made me look fickle,

One rule for the people and one for my friends,

Breaking the trust on which government depends,

(Though you know how I view the need for the truth,

Inconvenient largely, unless opposed with the proof

Of illegal actions while holding an office’) –

Cummings interjects – ‘Now just stop Boris.

You know there’s no way you can do without me,

I’m Warwick the Kingmaker and you are Henry,

Put on your throne having won my allegiance,

I’m the man that you call in times of exigence,

You are my puppet, now dance to my tune,

Or don’t and your power will end, oh, so soon.

I am the gambler, you are the horse,

Do what I say or I’ll make you by force,

I’m a man that doesn’t go in for remorse.

‘But Cummings’, said Boris, his face turning florid,

‘The people will think that I’m perfectly horrid!

While I don’t think that you’ve done anything wrong,

I’m worried the people won’t follow along.’

In great agitation, he paced on the floor.

‘Well if that’s how you feel then show me the door,’

Said Cummings, eyes flinty, devoid of all pity,

‘Try and manage without me – it won’t be pretty’.

At this, Boris gasped, he swelled and he blustered,

Cummings looked on, the man wasn’t flustered,

He knew he’d left Johnson with simply one choice,

To go to the press and add in his voice,

In favour of Dominic testing his eyesight,

By driving in Durham, he’d give him the green light

To carry on as the man ministers fear,

The man with the power, that Boris keeps near.

And so it was thus, hypocrisy triumphed,

Some MPs resigned but Dom was defiant.

And seeing that he could break rules with impunity,

So crumbled commitment to quarantine unity.

In parks they then gathered, they flocked to the beaches,

A wise man would know he should do as he preaches,

But trust, it had vanished, as in a great roar,

The people attempted to even the score.

‘If he can go out, then by God I will too,

Do you really think, Boris, I’ll listen to you?’

But that is old news, the world has moved on,

Except for those who find their relatives gone,

Lost to the virus – but they couldn’t be near,

At the end of the lives of the ones they held dear,

But this kind of thing is, well, typically Tory,

It isn’t a new thing, we all know the story.

Callous, unfeeling, they simply don’t care,

If poor people die and life is unfair.

They care about money and not about lives,

The newspapers say that they’re open to bribes.

The arts has no value, at least in their eyes,

What do they care if a livelihood dies?

This tale could go on, for pages and pages,

With stories that show the importance of stages,

But it’s spanned pages 3 and it’s time for an end,

After all – there is a country to mend.

Categories: Poetry, Politics

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