Oh no, Bo-Jo.
The Dumblewort smirked with his lying eye stride as they wheeled off the dead and the whole world sighed. ‘We’ll win it, we’ll bash it, we’ll kick the door in.’ He fumbled his pockets, his jacket, his chin. He fussled and rustled and peaked through his hair as the watchers and workers looked on in despair. ‘It’s bumscious, it’s brimming and all shall devour. Let’s show them, we’re British and this our great sour!’ He pulled up his trousers and tucked in his tie as he pondered what filling that very night's pie. ‘Where was I? Who are you? Oh, yes, yes indeed. Keep bashing and thrashing we’re all sure agreed.’ A thump on the lectern, rolled paper in hand, a boy on his potty, world king, he commands.
I wrote this in the early days of lockdown in the UK. I was studying Creative Writing with the OU at the time and playing around with comical ideas for poems. It was a surreal period (ongoing).
Writing this helped me vent, and up until a few days ago I never thought I would share it with anyone. But hey, in this post-truth UK Liz Truss has just quit as PM after a month of economic turmoil worthy of a poem itself and The Dumblewort is now racing from the loo to put his name down for the job he’s just been kicked out of. Imagine that happening in any real world vacancy? And imagine anyone at the firm throwing their support behind them?
Welcome to Tory Brexit Britain, and get to the back of the effin queue.