A chandelier accent
comes galloping to the aid
of things as they must remain.
A perfect bag of air, with a mouth
that can sound out the word
He heroically picks up the test tube
to pour out the blood of others.
He believes, passionately, in allies
the Prime Minister invented
while smoking a large herbal cigarette
Boris gave him the other morning;
perseveres, stoically, when those
who, in traditional times,
didn’t have telephones
call his office to tell his staff
what he is, or say the truth
about him on Twitbook.
Eventually, he’ll go upstairs
to not sit at the right hand
of his father, who’ll be too busy
trying to light his pipe,
or having a difference of emphasis
with the late Vladimir Lenin
over a ginormous mug of tea,
to be bothered with Junior’s excuses
for having spent
his final years on Earth
in a vast red robe
banging on the door
of the House of Lords,
shouting for someone to, please,
let him in.
By Kevin Higgins