In This Bleak Midwinter

In the bleak mid-winter
Tory winds blew cold;
Man with heart of iron,
Boris was enthroned;
Votes had fallen, vote on vote,
Vote on vote,
In the bleak mid-winter
Not so long ago.

Brexit cannot hold Him
Nor EU sustain,
Socialism shall flee away
When He comes to reign:
In the bleak mid-winter
Ten Downing Street sufficed
Next to God Almighty —
Johnson and his wife.

Enough for Him, whom tabloids
Worship night and day,
A fizzing magnum of champagne
And a Corbyn run away;
Enough for Him, whom Angels
Fall down before,
The forty seat majority
Which him adore.

Angels and Archangels
May have gathered there,
Cherubim and seraphim
Thronged the air;
But only Mrs Johnson
In her drunken bliss
Worshipped mophead Boris
With a kiss.

What can I give Him,
Right wing as I am? —
If I were a banker
I would bring him cash;
If I were a businessman
I would do my part, —
Yet what I can I give Him, —
Votes were just the start.