The ghost of the spud headed spad
Stalks the ramparts of Number Ten.
Something rotten in Albion
Stinks like dead mice down the sofa.
Populist tactics drafted in,
From those chums across the pond.
Skeletons queue up for release,
From inside Downing Street closet.
More than a whiff of change in the air,
Feels like, could be, final hurrah
For last of the Bullingdon boys.
No-one quite sure who to believe,
The how nor the why nor the what.
We wince as our cash is trousered,
By fly by night crooks via phone,
Still haystack bonce rides high with those,
Who couldn’t wait to get it done.
They made our bed with hidden tacks,
Now all of us insomniacs.

Harry Rogers, In the Yellow Room, 24th April 2021.


Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s