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Imagine a PM so desperate to retain his poor powers
That he disguises the despot behind the teapot on your own
Breakfast tray. A man who will do anything to preserve
The mask he has shown us, and through the holes of which
He blows vapours more foul smelling and toxic than any
From the gas or napalm bombs of past days.
A man who messily spreads sense across the morning toast
Like bad butter; mould at this mouth like the mushrooms
Found at the heart of the wood; and who will do all he can
To fit the totalitarian taste to all flavours; a man without
Morals, or any true concern for the good. The Sue Gray
Report is on its way and thickly redacted.
Behind the scenes,  Civil Servants and Governmental
Marker pens tippex truth. As it is likely that what Gray
Has found will soon be dressed in false colours. As with
Joseph’s famous coat, the PM as Peacock will preen
And parade to distract us; one beady eye on the gallows
And one, with blood in it directed towards the next
Polling Booth. Johnson surely has Nixon nixed as Kuenessberg
And co. tell the story. He is the fat boy at his birthday,
Trying to eat all the cake. And make sure of course that nobody
Plays with the presents that he has already stolen. Forget what
Was served there, or eaten; we should put that porcine prick
To the stake, and watch him flambe as falsity’s fats fry and crackle.
From his vituperations  come verses that I wish as sharp as knives,
Or Hell’s flame, to ask you, England: how much more can you swallow?
As we might as well all have attended the party that Carrie created –
or was said to create  – in Dom’s name. After he’d gone. But let’s not
Make Dominic Cummings the Martyr. Instead, let’s for God’s sake
And surely our own, oust this oaf, who squats in Whitehall,
Souring the milk of human kindness each minute, while the blue decay
Of disorder eats into your own morning loaf. He will worm his way
Out Of this; that is the fear that keeps forming. Its not even about
his position, But about what he represents: the depravity and design
Of those who seek or believe that they deserve to control us.
Which is in itself a contagion for which there is no cure forthcoming
And no visible line of defence. Do him down. Pull the chair before
He sits back and keeps eating. Find a fresh party, free of all this.
Swallow sense.  G. Gordon Liddy became a US celebrity years later.
And at the end of the life Oswald Moseley appeared on British
Television Talk Shows. But, now to be clear, we must try to exile
Latent evil. Blow the buffoon past all orbits. or send him
To the Island that Priti once prized. Make live ghosts.
But will we? Will they? That is the question. But Hamlet
Was never a hero; he was always a doomed, damaged boy at Mum’s
Door. Johnson sees himself as Prince Hal, but he’s more Richard III;
Without presence. Or he’s a Caliban, for whom pity should be
Denied.  Make that law. And as we do, reveal what’s been broken.
Statute. Reputation. And the souls, fates and heartbeats of those
Who are now six feet below his fouled floor.
                                                      David Erdos January 29th 2022   

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