Quis? Ego

~ on the anointing of Alexander Boris de Pfeffel Johnson

So what if it was just a drunken dare
Quis? Ego! Made at Eton long ago
I dub thee Boris of the Golden Hair
Servus, servum, servi, servo, servo
So what if afterwards they went to town
and ordered tiny sparrows stuffed inside
six rare exotic birds and chased it down
with virgins’ tears in mouths so open wide
one could believe designed to fit the poor
in at such times there are no partridges
Amo! Amas! Deus! Deum! and more
Dom Perignon! To Boris! Boris is
The Chosen One! So long ago, the dare
At Eton, or more probably, elsewhere

© Gail Foster 24th July 2019

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Guilty Tory Crush; Kenneth Clarke

for Jemma Brown

 *

Alas, alack, I am undone, upon my cheek a raging flush

For I’ve discovered, oh what fun, I have a guilty Tory crush

You’d think, you would, a girl like me, a wafty lefty sort of bint

Would fain bestow her fancy free on someone of a redder tint

 …

On Dennis Skinner, him, perhaps, or Livingstone, you might presume

Or younger, pinker, backbench chaps, some decades nearer to the womb

But I’m for Clarke, for Old Blue Ken, a Behemoth of an MP

That wonder amongst Tory men; Kenneth Harry Clarke QC

 …

Girl, you say, you’ve lost the plot, the bloke’s a cad, a Tory cove

But I say Ken is steaming hot, unlike yer Howard, or yer Gove

But Girl, you say, he’s of the Right!  It’s wrong, so wrong, in many ways

Come back, come back, in to the light!  This thing for Ken is just a phase

 …

Much like the Mosley years, I say (which episode was far from jolly)

Oh that, well, mmm, a tough one, hey, I’ll put it down to youthful folly

But Girl, our Kenneth’s not yer man, he’s not your type, your type at all

And come the day shits hits the fan he’d have you first against the wall

Er…

God help me!  Look how dextrously he fondles that big fat cigar

Kenneth, take a turn with me, in some cool posh flash racing car

Or take me, twitching, in your hide, or show me how to dance to jazz

What price street cred, left wing pride, who cares when you’re as randy as

 …

Oh, Ken, Your Corpulence, you’re cute, your chubby cheeks are so disarming

The way you burst out of your suit; so boyish, and so fatly charming

You’re bad!  You’re good! You speak your mind!  But really, here’s the nub of it

A forthright man is hard to find, and frankly

You don’t give a shit

 *

© Gail Foster 21st October 2016

 

(Oh come on, girls you must agree, he’s got it goin’ on, has Ken

Just Jemma Brown?  Just her and me? Much more of Ken for us two then

Bags me first dibs then, Jemma, hey, you can have him when I’m done

I’ll have him early in the day, and you can have a later one

He likes a pint or two, you know, well rather more than that methinks

Me, I’ll have his morning glow and you can take him out for drinks

But maybe, mate, one at a time, no threesomes, even though you’re lush

Ha ha Jemma, here’s yer rhyme, about my guilty Tory crush)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

On the Passing of Howard Marks

Howard Marks; a Clerihew

So, farewell Howard, Mr Nice

Massive reefers were your vice

Life’s but a spliff to puff and pass

All grass is weed, all flesh is grass

*

Wasted Angels

Howard Marks and God Almighty

Shared a spliff and had a whitey

Then had the munchies, and a bong

Annoying Peter with the pong

By which time it was far too late

To frisk young Howard at the gate

God, seeing Peter’s consternation

Outlined the process of creation

How on day three he made the weed

With every other tree and seed

To raise in some, apotheosis

And test some others, with psychosis

Now, Howard’s stash was pretty small

And didn’t last too long at all

So, as he didn’t see the point

Of heaven’s joys without a joint

He got his bong, and skins, and tin

Chucked all the roaches in the bin

And, following a wicked smell

Went wafting off to score, in hell

St. Peter looked above and groaned

As all the angels flew past, stoned

*

by Gail

 

Banksy’s Joke

Dismal Gnome

I want to go to Dismaland!

I’ll thcweem until I’m thick!*

I have blisters on my fingers

From the endless futile click

There’ll be secretaries on it

Pulling non-existent strings

There’ll be rumours of a con

On social media and things

I want to go to Dismaland

And see the horrid stuff!

How come I can’t buy tickets

And my money’s not enough?

In the shadows Banksy chuckles

He’s got the Art World in his hand

He has turned pretention on itself

As planned

by Gail

The phrase marked with * is a quote from Violet Elizabeth Bott, from the Just William stories, who was a very spoilt footstamping little girl with ringlets and a lisp…