The Fall of Boris

Boris Johnson
Boris, by TheDigitalArtist, from Pixabay

All his life Boris had his eyes
On winning that most glorious prize,
The golden key to Number Ten,
The greatest goal of powerful men.
A chubby lad at a posh school,
His one ambition was to rule.
At Balliol while reading Greek
He schemed to scale that lofty peak.
The Telegraph and the Spectator
Were a mere path to something greater.

Politics then suavely beckoned:
He won a seat — but soon he reckoned
An MP’s rise was far too slow,
And found another way to go.
He beat Red Ken as London mayor
And did quite well. But, to be fair,
In that unnecessary post
Those who do least succeed the most.

Now it was time to get a grip
On winning the prime ministership.
Back in the House he did not tarry,
And rose to Foreign Secretary.

But circumstances soon revealed
A fatal flaw, till now concealed,
Which was to bring his final fall:
He wanted to be loved by all.
When he had been a journalist
In articles he’d seldom missed
A chance to slag off the EU —
And you’d have thought he meant it, too.
Now a real chance of leaving loomed:
Back the wrong side, and he’d be doomed.
Faced with the choice, he feebly dithered
And, while he did, his prospects withered.
Cameron had been rudely bounced
In to a poll, where he was trounced.
He’d thought it a foregone conclusion,
But left in panic and confusion.

Boris now thought he had a chance,
Though weakened by his previous stance.
Into the ring he threw his hat —
But slimy Gove put paid to that.
And we all toiled our weary way
Through the sad years of Mrs May.

When finally the hag was gone,
Boris proclaimed, ‘Get Brexit done!’
(I hardly need explain to you
That this was totally untrue.)
He won the long awaited post,
The prize he coveted the most.
We thought the wasted years were past
And better times had come at last;
No sooner, though, than he began,
We saw the measure of the man.

In everything he tried to do
He yielded to the vile EU,
Giving our fish up at their order,
Betraying Northern Ireland’s border,
Letting in hordes of violent men,
Failing again and yet again.
Then sadly he agreed to marry
His bullying mistress, crazy Carrie,
Who pushed him into green excesses
Far worse than all his other messes:
We’ll have no electricity
Because of her complicity
With those who claim to ‘build back better’,
Their orders followed to the letter.

A General Election neared;
It wasn’t something Boris feared.
The other bloke was unelectable,
A fact that Boris found delectable.
Destroying the economy,
He burbled with faux bonhomie
That won a large majority
And strengthened his authority —
— Or rather that of evil men
Who had the run of Number Ten.

And then there came the Chinese flu,
And for a while it seemed he’d do
The wise thing: herd immunity
Spreading through the community.
But no, he let the EU force
Us blindly down their murderous course:
Locked down and quarantined and masked,
People did everything they asked.
Businesses closed; the NHS
While claiming to do more, did less —
Two years of utter misery
From which we never shall be free.
Worst of all, lethal vaccination
Was forced upon the cringing nation,
With every kind of side effect
That left folk’s constitutions wrecked.

His ruinous antics in Ukraine
Proclaimed him utterly insane.
But still he seemed to bear a charm
That shielded him from serious harm;
He lurched from one mess to another
Without incurring any bother.
A motion of no confidence
Was shrugged off. It just made no sense.

Enoch spoke well when he said all
Who enter politics will fall;
And it was bound to come about
That Boris’s luck would peter out.
Oddly, what ended his long run
Was nothing he himself had done:
What finally caused him to trip
Was the misconduct of a whip.

But when the end came, it came fast:
For as the next three days went past
Ministers left, not one by one,
But in great crowds at a brisk run.
Of course he tried his usual bluff,
But everyone had had enough.
He lost his post, he’ll lose his seat,
And soon we’ll see him in the street
Trying to sell us the Big Issue.
So farewell, Boris! We won’t miss you.

(Though, when I wrote this scathing verse,
I knew the next one would be worse.)

© Tachybaptus 2022