The Ancient Premier

           The Ancient Premier

 

            A cautionary tale, with apologies to Samuel Taylor Coleridge

           

            It is a knackered Premier

            And he falleth from his tree.

            "By thy short grey hair and tittering tongue,

            Now why fall'st thou on me?

 

            The Polling Station's doors are ope'd,

            And I am next to vote;

            The die is cast, the present past:

            Thy boat's no more afloat."

 

            He grabs us with a sleazy paw,

            "This soap-box - look!" quoth he.

            "Sod off! Thou hast a greasy spoon!"

            Yet still made he his plea.

 

            He snags us with his twittering words -

            We Voters stand in line,

            And listen to his curdling words

            Which bristle up our spine.

 

            "I have a dream, which all my team

            Defy thee to condemn!"

            Thus spake that grey and greasy man,

            And sprayed us all with phlegm.

 

            "The Sun came up upon the Left!"

            A likely tale, we guessed,

            And, as one soul, pressed for the poll

            Whilst he relieved his chest.

 

            He drivelled, as we hurried by,

            Of ancient hulks and wrecks,

            But proffered us, without a fuss,

            The blankest of his cheques.

 

 

 

            "Here is my manifesto bold!"

            His voice was paper-dry,

            As full of ash as petty cash,

            And whining, by the by.

 

            "What ails thee, Ancient Premier?

            What tale hast thou to tell?

            Hast ate a dish of rotting fish?"

            For faintly did he smell.

 

            He shook his fist, he shook his head,

            And grey tears cours'd his cheek.

            "Before thou walkest through the door,

            I beg thee, hear me speak!"

 

            Witter, witter, everywhere,

            Until his face grew pink:

            Witter, witter, everywhere,

            And still that fearful stink!

 

            "I promise thee!" That did the trick,

            We set upon him straight,

            And cut his head like botchy bread

            Upon a broken plate.

 

            But from his corse, with silver wings,

            There stepp'd an Albatross,

            Defrosted krill inside his bill,

            Inmix'd with dental floss!

 

            "The curse is lifted!" cried the bird,   

            Which rose up in the air,

            And as he flew into the blue,

            He shrieked "I'm Tony Blair!"

 

            We left the scene with salted eyes,

            And drank until the dawn,

            As sadder, though no wiser men,

            Our ballot-papers torn.

 

From Tony Blair reminds me of a budgie

A cautionary tale, with apologies to Samuel Taylor Coleridge