Tell me – how do you like your Premier?
that arse-scratching bandersnatch over there?

that, my friend, is Boris Johnson
the UK’s very own political toxin

patron saint of rabid self-interest
more deep fakes than Pinterest

clinically averse to telling the truth
his priest says they’re gonna need a bigger booth

ill-repute in a savile row suit
morals of a garbage chute

the Tory anointed prophet of loss
the Eton mess who couldn’t give a toss

the archangel of shameless
synthetically blameless

authentic as a Cosplay Churchill
sexed-up as a Viagra’d gerbil

thicker sliced than Wonderbread
big fat kickbacks, big fat head

wallet lifting, pocket patting
only the bible has more begatting

articulate as a wet fart in a wind tunnel
a face you instinctively want to pummel

but still – unaccountably – keeper of this zoo
where the animals are howling and look like you