(Dedicated to Professor Joseph Wiesenfarth)
When Mister Johnson entered Number Ten,
He was a man in tearing zip.
It was clear that he alone could steer
To desired harbour the Brexit ship.
His disheveled hair bespoke his confidence,
As did the thunder of his words;
But within days of his elevation
He found himself at embarrassing odds
With his own good Conservatives,
Who fancied not his No-Deal bluster—
Sensible politicians whose uppermost
Interest was in their voting muster.
Most galling for Mister cocksure Johnson
Was how the canny Corbyn stole his members;
His flaming phrases for England first
Had fallen ashen among Labour’s embers.
Mister Johson’s troubles are extreme.
What wagon may he verily hitch?—
Defy parliament and the law,
Or drop dead in that promised ditch?
Alas, that Great Britain should come to this,
For whatever her faults in history,
Her humour even at the precipice
Must remain an inspiring mystery.