25 July 2019
The Boriad – Books 1,2,3 and 4
Not, in fact,
Like great Achilles, Boris Johnson
from his tent full armoured sprang.
No more skulking in the shadows,
now’s the time to upward man.
His Patroclus, the Raab Extremis,
in his borrowed armour strove;
but died before the Hunter’s fury
(assisted by the darts of Gove).
Till then his care for the Borides
(should he know just who they are)
and fair Carrie, her couch despoiled,
kept Boris from the toils of war.
But Jove the thunderer in his heaven,
knew that this would never do.
If foul Remain’s to be confounded
heroes must as heroes do.
So he sent the lovely Laura
Kuenssberg, the Minervan maid;
In her handbag was his order.
“Off your arse!” is what it said.
Up got Boris newly armoured
sword of bombast, shield of froth;
to engage with Marr the wise man,
arbiter of lies and truth.
Can he defeat the famous Hunter
when with pledge in hand they meet?
Or three times round the walls of Brexit
will he be dragged in dire defeat?
On Olympus, cloud compelling,
Jove a summit meeting called.
Janus Jez, two faced on Brexit,
claimed that he was quite appalled.
“Much too friendly, much too nice guy
This debate needs bile and bite.
Stir their hatreds! Split their party!
Make them quite unfit to fight.”
Down went Hermes (not the handbag),
Conway, Fink and Liddle too,
to stir the pot with nibs of poison
for that is what they’re paid to do.
So now the heroes meet in anger,
with their supporters, great and less;
Achilles mother helped him prosper
Boris just has IDS.
Polished pledges, sharpened half truths
each side rains upon the foe.
Less taxation, lots more policemen
Boris says, but does he know
Where the needed funds will come from?
His dividend may not exist.
His promises come back to smite him,
returned by Hunt’s avenging fist?
Round and round our heroes scramble
Hunt will give the navy more!
Could this appeal to Tory stalwarts?
Leave Boris stranded on the shore?
But lo from heaven a cry of anguish;
Who now will champion poor Remain?
The heroes both are all for leaving
Must she just die, her cause in vain?
No, at Jove’s side feasts Jean-Claude Juncker,
his victuals tributes from the Greeks
and other PIGS, who listen awestruck
when, after his dessert, he speaks.
“This Brexit business, such a nonsense
why should they think of leaving me?
Why leave the safety of my empire,
so close across the wine dark sea?
Had I but spoken at the hustings,
the vote would ne’er have gone awry.
Fair Cameron would still be ruling
who now in dusty grave does lie.
Still I’m too great for such work nowadays
– yes I’ll have foie gras with my toast –
Ms von der Leyen must take the cudgels,
and lay about the Brexit host.
Nymph Ursula, my hoped successor,
your armour don! Your car away!
With savage rules and regulations,
Boris transfix and Hunter slay.
A puppet, that is what is needed.
not Vince, he always was too old.
But in the wings their lurks young Stewart
a brave explorer, fierce and bold.”
To earth now sweeps the sacred chariot
drawn by a pair of glittering steeds.
In Ursula’s hand a fell epistle
will spur Lib Dems to glorious deeds.
So is great Boris doomed to perish
in aftermath if not in vote?
Can he face down the force unleashed
When the nymph delivers what Juncker wrote?
Has he no friends in the high heavens
who will stand up and fight his cause?
No most of them a clown do think him,
but just a moment, let us pause.
Isn’t there at the gates of Hades
a god called POTUS fierce and strong
who in his late perambulations
swore Boris could do no wrong?
Send for POTUS, God of Chaos,
Bolton and Pompeo too.
They’ll redress the unfair balance
So Boris thought and rightly too.
“Who is this Boris?” asked great POTUS.
“Do I know him? Is he my friend?
Should I some warships, armed with missiles
Dispatch to him? Some armour lend?”
“No, no, great Lord,” said his advisers,
obsequious now, but nervous too,
“no fleet will help him in his travails;
he needs a treaty signed by you.”
“Why I’m a businessman” said POTUS.
“Big contracts are right in my line.
Bring me a fat one with some words on
I’ll get my golden pen and sign.”
“No, stop a bit”, said Mike Pompeo.
“Let’s wait and see who wins this fight.
What, waste good help upon a loser?
Like Democrats? That can’t be right!”
So Boris just gets words from Potus
while Hunt and Fox campaign all day;
Ursula, who hates both heroes,
hopes that each will the other slay.
But now another wind is blowing.
From Tory shires all clad in tweed,
backwoodsmen, loyal hearts a glowing,
come out for Boris in his need.
Votes their weapons; Mogg their leader;
Hard they fall upon the foe.
Soon the election’s done and dusted
Boris to Number 10 shall go.
But how to deal with broken Hunter
who now upon the sand does writhe.
The normal rule of such encounters?
The victors live the losers die!
But Ursula is not yet dealt with
and Hunt, well he’s a warrior true;
so Boris pardons him but leaves him
outside his team, his worst to do.
(After Pope – by about 300 years)