‘Binface!’ Cried Nigel, and spat
His croissant all over the cat
‘Don’t they know who I am?’
Spitting heritage ham
And some jam with Cointreau on the mat

‘Binface, for fuck’s sake!’ He said
With his mouth full and face going red
Spilling café au lait
For the fourth time that day
And the veins bulging out of his head

‘Binface! He’s only a bin!
Don’t they know who I am? It’s a sin
It’s as if I’m a joke
Not a serious bloke
Who can trouser five million and win!’

‘Binface, for fuck’s sake! Who’s he?’
He looks like a bin, mate, to me
Thought the cat as he went
To the cupboard and sent
His report to Sky News and AP

‘Binface!’ The egg on his face
Was rolling and gathering pace
And ran down his chin
What there was of it. ‘Bin!
With a face! What a total disgrace!’

‘Binface!’ The record was stuck
So he ordered some lemons to suck
And sat feeling bitter
A while on the shitter
Without having very much luck

‘Binface! He’s dressed as a knight!
And his armour is catching the light
And I just have a suit
And some bullshit!’ So cute
Thought the cat, and more fun stuff to write

‘Binface! B- Binface! He’s not
Even serious! What has he got?
I get selfies with Trump
While he goes to the dump
He’s got no dosh and I’ve got a lot!’

‘Binface! What madness is this!’
Said Nigel, and started to hiss
Turning into the snake
That he was. Couldn’t take
It, they said, people taking the piss

‘Binface!’ They said on the news
‘What a glorious victor to choose
And so cool, with a chin
You can see yourself in!
(Not like Nigel. You loser. You lose)’

© Gail Foster 8th July 2026