The Legend of Boristannia

Once upon a time
in a land far, far away
from you
the EU
or any notion of accountability
lay a fabled land of limited respectability
led by the warrior Boristannia
dressed in a suit he’d pulled from his pannier
with a nest of golden hair that didst
his mortal minions keep transfixed
because he knew well how to artfully shock it
to make it seem shaggier the more you clock it
and have you reach for the comb in your pocket
because he’s obviously too brilliant to worry about looks
like an Einstein, maybe, or a Michael Foot

just a guess

but I digress

And verily
most merrily
and hail-fellow-well-met pseudo-militarily
in his right hand he didst clasp a trident submarine
that handily doubled as a pegging machine
and a shield cast from the purest pig Latin
that in
times of embattled TV debate
when the questions weren’t falling all that great
and his collar didst feel a weeny bit hot
he couldst wave the shield about his person a lot
until the questioner quite forgot
what it was she’d come to ask
and the moment wouldst pass
and the whole thing feel like a Whitehall farce

and lo! Boristannia’s statue on the plinth
that I’m sad to say these many years sinth
hath been pushed in the harbour
didst formally boast in addition to said armour
one monstrous & mighty
and really extremely quite bitey
I’m surmising
the huge amount of lion
he didst did

Anyway – that’s Boristannia, god forbid
My rent’s due Thursday. Lend us a quid.

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