by David Erdos
Burn, then, as we have burned under you!
Spurn yourself! End your era! And let defamation
Trump your own infamy. For just as Kenneth Williams
Cried in the film Carry On Cleo, we all have it in for you,
Bore-is, or as was. Be not free
To do what thou wilt, clear a la Crowley,
A true black magician who had more command
Of his spells. And who at least safeguarded a flame
Unlike the one you have fanned, borne of hatred.
So as you descend then please do so
Down a boulevard straight to Hell.
So that you no longer besmirch the byways
And highways of England, as you once cavorted
And stained Oxbridge halls, even as you claw on,
Filling cabinets you should empty, a blown,
Bloated squatter, expelling squits past brass balls.
It is reported that fifty rats flew your ship, yet still
You stamped through dark water. Hoisting what was left
Of your ark to foam oceans that could only spit as you walked.
What you have allowed is simply the underlining of Thatcher
Who once sank British sailors, I hear her wretched refrains
When you talk, albeit with less fluency, as you make an oil slick
Of language. And you a former editor! Shameful. You do not
Have the words, just the cheek, as you try to take charge
Of a world turning to crumbling biscuit about you.
Bull in a China shop doesn’t catch you, as you rupture air
When you speak and lie open-mouthed, your heart and mind
Closed but ransacked by your lust for power and for some
Desperate frau’s nippled peak. I despise you, of course.
As has been seen in these poems. But then when you were
Elected your own sister appeared on TV. On Channel 4’s
Sad attempt to satirise and to capture the charm of Peter Cook
And Co. They’d have had you. They’d have shown the shit
At your seat. And still you won’t go. Is it another ploy,
Resignation? Do you hope or plan a new crisis on a wider stage
Until then? Michael Gove has been sacked. Back to Middle Earth,
Gimpy Gollum, along with Richi, but what riches now to defend?
Will they have you back on quiz shows, and say that all is forgiven,
Or will you populate the far places that those in disrepute
Duly prowl? Under college pal Cameron’s soft rock, or wherever
Kevin Spacey finds safe harbour. Is there a club, or cave
To protect you? Will you worship Bohemian Grove’s jungle owl?
You will feather your nest with stolen swans, and plucked eagles.
Crushed doves will be pate for you to spread on your toast.
Or you will publish your book and make the next million,
In the sick society you have symptomed you will refresh
While we roast. How do you sleep? Was Lennon’s hurtful song
To McCartney. But that came from the anger of the dream
They shared falling fowl. But I will still quote those words
And fire them at you. You praised the mandate you were given
To lie and falsely smile while I scowl. Seeing it all as your right
You praise the fact that ‘our brilliant and Darwinian system
Will bring about a new leader’ as if being Tory PM was a birthright,
That contained natural life. And while you may be a beast,
You are not noble, just savage. To me, a man alone, it’s a horror
That you have had even one choice of wife. So, let’s see
If your current Lady Macbeth who has not unsexed for gall
Remains with you, now that shadows call you, let alone
A ghost’s knife. I have my suspicions of course, as this is not
A faithful age. You have shown that. What you are is a roadblock
To the particular path of the free. Will it open now?
There’s scant hope. But then who will replace you. Someone
Moderate? Man, I doubt it. For this is where the blue
Becomes black. And the right-wing hardliners demand a somewhat
Desperate direction, leaving the left to plan progress
And to shine once more through the slack. For today,
I rejoice. But you will still be there tomorrow.
Burn, bore. I bridle. But what life now gains
May you lack. Do not re-emerge. Be as a submarine, Boris.
Seek only the depths that define you. I hound you down
To hellfire. And as your ship starts sinking and the waters rise