The poet sighed. What is there left to write
The Tories have all gone, well nearly all
The ones that there are left are really small
No bark to speak of, never mind a bite
They whisper to each other in their fright
Discussing who it was who dropped the ball
Or caused the sword of Damocles to fall
Upon them from so very great a height

I never could quite bring myself to piss
On Thatcher’s grave, nor shall I stop to shit
On Rishi’s monument. Nobody’s died
We bask in some sweet momentary bliss
On grassy uplands by the sunshine lit
What is there left to write, the poet sighed

© Gail Foster 10th July 2024