BORIS TOLD SUCH DREADFUL LIES

A parody on the Hilaire Belloc Cautionary Tale about Matilda.

Based on facts gleaned from the Guardian article on the ten phases of his life:

https://www.theguardian.com/politics/2019/jul/21/boris-johnson-route-to-number-10

Oh, Boris told such dreadful lies,

One just gazed wide-eyed at the skies,

Astounded at support from these

Parliamentary colleagues

Who rallied to their leader’s cause,

Secure in the male menopause.

Gove, Michael, who was quite gung-ho

Wanted to believe him, though

In trying to maintain his credence

While avoiding intercedence

Got his knickers in a twist

Which hardly pleased a hedonist.

But may have done so, had not he

Been faced with obvious perfidy.

For once, towards the end of work

He realised that the stupid berk

Had joined a party out-of-doors,

Knowing there was nothing worse,

But given the alternative,

Was doggedly conservative.

While as for dear effete Rees Mogg

Whose mind was often in a fog,

Though evidently of good breeding,

Slept through parliament’s proceeding.

And in The Mogg Cast Jacob wrote

“Unquestionably” – and I quote:

“The PM is an honest man”.

What brave words from a loyal fan.

He seemed to share with Donald Trump

A failure to maintain the rump

Of his supporters who only lasted

So long as he felt they could be trusted.

Thus Priti Patel with whom, besotted

He must have been, for when she blotted

Her copy book, he kept her in

The Cabinet, despite a sin

That others, far beneath her station,

To leave had had no hesitation.

But once, towards the close of day

Hearing merry sounds of play,

Bojo took his health in hand

Ignoring rules from his command.

“No-one tells me what to do”

Quoth he, “I’m off to have a few.”

“Allow me, please, to beg your pardon

And join my colleagues in the garden.”

It was not long before a tide

Of censure came from every side.

From Kensington and Camden Town,

From Aberdeen and County Down.

The premier has been found out

As if there could be any doubt,

For, after all, his lying skills

Had long replenished the gristmills.

When young he suffered from glue ear

So, what he did not want to hear

In later life, he could ignore

And simply choose to underscore

His frequent absurd recklessness

On the misfortune of deafness.

At Oxford in the Bullingdon

His drunkenness was quite well-known.

His early exploits as a Yuppy;

Flirtation then with Darius Guppy.

As editor of the Sextator

With thanks, doubtless, to his Creator

More flirtations, some quite grave;

“Who, sir? Me, sir? I’m no knave”

But Petronella at his back

Could not avoid the sack by Black.

Earlier it was the Times;

Distortions were his major crimes.

And, finally, to Downing Street

Where the circle is now complete,

Surrounded by his faithful lackeys,

Standing up for the Iraqis,

Risking the enmity of Cumming

Whose Durham trip was unbecoming,

Though not condemned at all by Boris

As extinct as a brontosaurus.

His lies have not grown any sweeter

They’ve more in common with a foetor,

When embarrassment heads his way

He simply takes off for the day:

“Sorry for this Obfuscation

I have to go to King’s Cross station

To provide a possible disclaimer

For my absence from the Chamber.”