In a somewhat light vein the following poems mark the stages in the amazing career of Mr. Boris Johnson during its latter stage up to the present.

1. A DOSSIER IN VERSE ON THE RISE AND TUMBLE OF
MR. BORIS JOHNSON
The Prelude: Down in Westminster
I was down in Westminster the other night
and there I saw a most horrible sight.
I saw a man without a head.
Cromwell? I asked, or a king long dead?
I then saw a dame with a horrid lurid glance,
not quite the sort you'd be asking for a dance.
If not Maggy, then who could it be?
I'm very sorry, mate. It's no use asking me,
Three weird sisters were there discussing Brexit.
One said leave it, and another tried to hex it.
What did I witness? Was this the 'monster mash,'
or just politicians as they made an awful hash?
A lanky hooded figure invited me in
with a croaky voice and a sinister grin.
My entry would be easy; of that I had no doubt,
but the problem would then have been: how to get out.
Was it all that talk of a 'backdrop' that made me hesitate?
When I got back home eventually, it was very, very late.
Boris’s Meteoric Rise to Power
Forward the light brigade!
Was there a dude dismayed?
Though most should have known
Cameron had blundered.
Theirs not to make reply!
Theirs not to reason why!
Theirs but to do or die!
Spurning the fear of Death
rode the three hundred.

2. Farage to the right of them,
Corbyn to the left of them.
Bannon in front of them
Volleyed and thundered.
Stormed at by the press,
Onward they rode in stress
Into the wilderness,
Oh, what an awful mess!
Rode the three hundred.
Praise him who led the charge,
Grant him the victor’s crown.
He brought Theresa down.
Can ever their great deed fade?
How high that price they paid!
All the world wondered.
Praise to the charge they made?
Praise to the Light Brigade?
Intrepid three hundred!
Johnson’s Rallying Call to Save the British Sausage
Yeomen of England! Arise to save our sausage,
Which European bureaucrats seek to take as hostage
The hour has come to fight the battle for the banger.
We recall the glorious days when spitfires left the hangar
For sure, for sure, Brussels’ governing elite
Has designs on much more than on our British meat.
Before too long the chance they'll surely seize
To lay grabbing hands even on our cheese.
Deny not to the beefeater his daily pound of meat
Or the Tower of London will crumble at your feet.

3. Boris When Viewed as a Marketable
Commodity
Shall I compare thee unto a crate of beer,
or, if not that, then unto washing powder?
Today I shun all things that are austere;
soft tones must yield to songs that are far louder.
May's shandy was for working men too sweet.
Newcastle Brown for them is much more dandy.
Reese-Mogg appealed but to the high elite.
It's Boris now who's dealing out the candy.
His soap suds as detergents wash much whiter
and his packaging's so appealing to the eye.
My desire 's for something that's much brighter
than the dowdy hues of Mr. Corbyn's dye.
Boris we hail, for 'tis he who's won the day.
To his product though a question. Who art thou anyway?
Refurbishing No. Ten
Everybody does their thing.
Some go hiking, some like to sing.
Some whirl around like a dancing Dervish
and some there are who like to refurbish.
In home improvements they find solace,
So it is in the case of Boris.
What then is better? Do it yourself
and take what you need straight from the shelf?
Or leave it to others your task to fulfill,
sit back, relax and wait for the bill?
If you do it yourself the costs will be low,
but work on the job is bound to be slow.
Keep a close eye on your paste and your glue
or you'll have to copewith big problems too.
Few outcomes in life are less appealing
than being stuck to the floor or the ceiling.
In upper circles, ere you can sneeze

4. you'll encounter what’s called 'sleaze.'
If you pay, then pay on the dot
or else you may land in a very tight spot,
Then think before you get in a fix:
Like paste and glue mud also sticks.
His Trust in Apologies as the Cure to any Challenge
I left the pub one night in a bit of a tizzy
and saw some kind of being like a tin lizzie.
This turned out to be a polite alligator
now on probation for having eaten a waiter.
The police left it tied to a street lamp, it seemed.
It looked so kind. how its joyful face beamed.
It spoke perfect English, quoted Terence and Horace.
I was surprised to learn that its first name was Boris.
"In life,' it confided. 'whatever you do,
apologize profusely and past failures rue.
Then proclaim calmly the past to be past.
Now is the time to move on at last.'
A sudden jerk made me lose grip of its leash.
It attacked an old person whom it ate like a quiche.
"I just couldn't resist, so please don't tell the cops,'
it said, tears in eyes. while licking its chops.
The loss of that gentleman causes me pain.
I promise sincerely not to do that again.'
Then two irate policemen appeared on the scene.
One was fat and the other was lean.
Boris polished them off at remarkable speed.
To discourage this act no plea could succeed.
I wagged a finger to show disapproval
at such a violent and hasty removal.
'I am so sorry,' said Boris 'That's the last time
I shall ever commit such a base crime.
As I said before, it's time to move on.
The past is past. what's gone has gone.'
Who then should appear but Lord James Murray,
whom Boris devoured in rather a hurry.
'Boris,' I cried. 'That's enough. I'm perplexed.'

5. 'In that case,' said Boris, you are the next.'
I ran like a hare for all I was worth
as never I ran from the day of my birth.
I got to my home, rushed in, locked the door.
I hid under the bedclothes, struck to the core.
What a hangover I had on the following day.
I saw no sign of Boris, I'm so glad to say.
SWAN SONG OF AN OLD-GUARD TRUE-BLUE TORY
I am one of the last of a dying breed,
I’m an antique true-blue Tory.
I grew up on Super-Mac
And ‘the Land of Hope and Glory.’
In Rab Butler I once found
A man both mild and sane.
Heath messed about in boats,
. Maggie Thatcher caused me pain.
Her politics were tough and right,
But I found her style too brash.
She was less concerned with social need
Than she was with sordid cash.
John Major held his horses.
He was middle-of-the-road.
Perhaps he was a shade too nice
To fit the worldly mode.
When Cameron came, the rot set in.
I mean that referendum.
Why dabble with these dubious things?
There's no reason to defend ‘em.
Theresa May did what she could
To sort out the Brexit shambles
But failed at last to free the land

6. From the consequence of gambles.
Boris Johnson ends the list
Of Tories hale and hearty,
And, to boot, as I do fear,
What’s left of the Old Tory Party.
To Liz or Richi falls the task
To clear up after Boris.
Were not the world better place
if he had kept to Horace?
Is the land I loved so well
Now the land of grope and gory?
Woe is me if I must close
With heavy heart this story.
Will Ye No Come Back Again?
Toll the bell slowly,
Tell high and lowly,
Declare far and wide.
Where, oh where is our hero and guide?
With darkness descending,
Our loss is unending.
With no one to help us, no one to save.
Aye, there is no recall from the grave.
But hark! We hear a mighty thump,
we hear a blast as from a trump.
We hear the mighty roar of thunder,
our beating hearts now lost in wonder.
The Tory party on their knees
heavenwards raise their hopeful pleas.
They sing full-throated this refrain,
which having sung, they sing again.
We want our Boris back,
we want our Boris back,

7. we want our Boris back,
Boris, come back please.