Lie to us, baby, one more time
So, which, do you think, was your biggest lie?
That you give any kind of fuck,
That you aren’t just flying high,
Wrapped warm in your best wallpaper,
Grinding out more little yous?
Was it the one about the Russians?
That you were snuggled up tight,
Taking anything they’d offer,
Till they made a bad show,
Ratings down, bombings up?
Or what about the bus?
Brexit, schmexit, who really cares?
It was a fabulous distraction,
A good old vote winner,
Great work for ghouls.
Then that thing about Covid
Being anything other
Than a licence to print contracts?
A few deaths between cronies?
Let’s just change the news.
And while we’re here, let’s have a party.
Because nothing says champers
Like struggling to breathe,
Long months in PPE,
Missing your children.
And it was always a lie
That you were any kind of funny.
That only works if posh is funny,
You didn’t make the first move,
That’s certainly true,
But you are doing your basic best
To strip us all bare.
Rip out the lights.
(audio version here).
Boris Johnson’s term as UK Prime Minister ends tomorrow. Has he been the worst leader the UK has ever known (partly by doing so very little leading)? There has been some tough competition but he’s definitely in the running.
I haven’t written many poems this year and of the ones I have written a couple are here on the blog and the rest are mainly wee ones on Twitter (seen by very few). There are so many crises that poetry feels a bit pathetic (the loudest crises this week being Pakistan/climate, Ukraine/war and the UK/cost of living). Still, I post the poem here as some kind of record. We stumble on, for now. We keep fighting.