Now if you were to ask
I’d say my favourite band are The Clash
And recently this band had a mention
From Prime Minister Boris Johnson
He claimed they were his favourite band
And like the best of activists, I took to Twitter
Said Boris, you don’t understand
Rebellion and resistance against the elite were the Clash’s main themes
Saying you love them is like the King who praises the guillotine
It’s like Dracula keeping a set of wooden steaks
A Battering ram being beloved by castle gates
The fly swatter cheered on by the fly
You seemed to have missed the point of their lyrics
Boris you don’t strike me as a punky kinda guy.
And I thought that would be that, a grumpy Tweet, no more
But one afternoon I had a knock on my door
It was old Boris, all bluster and hot breath
Fear of failure and the ditches of death
He said: “I need a punk poet to pen me a verse
Paint me in a good light
Before things get much worse”
Well in this economy, I can’t be choosey, got rent to pay
So I said: “OK, but it must be the truth today”
Well maybe it was my kind, trustworthy face
Or the guilt he needed to expunge and displace
“Oh yes”, he galumphed, it’s me you can trust
I asked about my fee
And pointed to a deal on the side of a bus.
He bumbled through his autobiography of silver spoons, Eton, Oxford, the Bullingdon Club
Burning notes in front of beggers and smashing up pubs
Said “I became a journalist, got sacked from The Times for making things up
In 1990 I helped my chum Darrius Guppy beat up a man pretty good”
Now Boris was breathless from the sudden splurge of sins
Cocked like a rifle aiming for grouse
He downed his tea, caught his breath, and drew me in
Then came a barrage of breakages and blunders
He bellowed them out like a cricket bat made of thunder
“I wasted millions in vanity projects as Mayor of London
Promised not to close the Tube ticket offices but now they’re all gone
Promised no fare increase but the costs went up
Like the capital’s homeless
Cut 300 firefighters, closed three fire stations for good.”
Well now Mr Johnson was at the end of his millionaire wits
Told me his What Ho history of being an MP in a garbled blitz
“Like Horatio at Trafalgar, Welly at Waterloo
I told my constituents of Uxbridge I’d do anything for you
I’d lie in front of a bulldozer to stop another Heathrow Runway
But when it came to the vote in Parliament I...ran away.”
He told me all his praise for austerity, for greed and profit
Didn’t have a problem with the EU until it could be spun as unpatriotic
The man was crumbling like the fracked white cliffs of Dover
“As PM? I put forward a Brexit deal moreorless the same one I quit over”
Now his eyes flashed a red that belied is blue blood in his veins
“It’s not my fault! My treacherous MPs
The Remainers and Labour, the EU, Libs and Bercow: They’re all to blame!”
What do you stand for, I asked?
The Queen he gasped!
God bless her! He spluttered
(though he admitted he lied to her too)
Toff tears from this big blubbering fool
“There’s no poets here” he lied automatically
“Never mind the flooded North, I’m the real national emergency!
I can’t tell what’s this character I’ve invented
Help me navigate what’s true
I want to go back to guesting on Have I Got News For You!”
Oh Boris, I sighed, this isn’t a scoop
Your lies, the incompetence? That’s a loveable trait
People like the way you back-stabbed Gove and your mates
The racist comments? Your Party happy to look the other way
In fact, that’s why they love you, a cartoonish replica from another age
You can say what you want, make a Big Ben-high pile of mistakes
Just proof that Old School Tie power and class privilege never really fades
He warbled from his quivering mouth
Oh goodness me, how do I get out?
This is torture, like I’m trapped in Dante’s Hell
Bojo, I’m afraid we’re in Limbo
Until December the 12th
Now chillout, stop thrashing, sit down relax, can I ask
Do you want another cup of tea while we listen to The Clash?
