Withering Mayflower

Phone your cousin, text your mate
Theresa’s reached her sell-by date,
She battled on through jibes and sneers
And stepping-down came close to tears.

Pack your bags and don’t you tarry
Buy some treats for distraught Larry,
The end of May is coming soon,
Campaigning will get tough in June.

The men in grey suits have no heart
It’s hard to tell these clones apart,
Their hair is styled, they’re smart as prefects,
Let’s search their Twitter feeds for defects!

Moving deckchairs, public realm,
Someone else must take the helm,
Every option, sounding humdrum,
Has no escape from this conundrum.

All for one and one for all.
Have they evolved since public school?
Michael, Boris, Dominic,
Matt or Rory? Take your pick!

Those challengers that you call bonkers
This autumn will be throwing conkers.
Former colleagues fear the scene
In Cabinet, come Halloween.

The nation is a laughing stock
As runners leave the starting block,
It’s surprising how they all evade
Questions regarding Irish trade.

Now they can dream of borders porous
And riding on a stegosaurus,
But consumers raised on regulations
Need shielding from poor imitations.

Security done on the cheap
Might lead us to a putrid heap
Of food that undermines our health,
Imported to boost someone’s wealth.

To judge from the contenders’ patter
Our ports’ logistics do not matter.
Tidy haircuts, synthetic smiles
They will not save these British Isles.     



© Copyright 2019 John Davison

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