(Dedicated to Professor Joseph Wiesenfarth)

 

When Mister Johnson entered Number Ten,

He was a man in tearing zip.

It was clear that he alone could steer

To desired harbour the Brexit ship.

 

His disheveled hair bespoke his confidence,

As did the thunder of his words;

But within days of his elevation

He found himself at embarrassing odds

 

With his own good Conservatives,

Who fancied not his No-Deal bluster—

Sensible politicians whose uppermost

Interest was in their voting muster.

 

Most galling for Mister cocksure Johnson

Was how the canny Corbyn stole his members;

His flaming phrases for England first

Had fallen ashen among Labour’s embers.

 

Mister Johson’s troubles are extreme.

What wagon may he verily hitch?—

Defy parliament and the law,

Or drop dead in that promised ditch?

 

Alas, that Great Britain should come to this,

For whatever her faults in history,

Her humour even at the precipice

Must remain an inspiring mystery.

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