Boris addresses his followers as he lays siege to a country I think I used to live in.

 

‘God for Boris, England, and Saint George!'

 

Once more a promise breached dear friends, once more;

Close up ranks and deny the English that we said.
In truth there’s nothing so becomes a man

As outright silliness and frivolity:

But when the blast of lies issues from our lips,

Then immediately strain every fibre;

Stiffen the sinews, summon up the blood,

Disguise fair truth with hard-favour'd rage;

Then lend the brass to the brasséd necked;
Let fly reportage from the brainless dead

Like water from my cannon; let the flow o’whelm all

As fearfully as a head upon the block

O’erhang and jutty; as my confounded nose

Grows with the lack of truthful notion.

Now set the teeth and stretch the nostril wide,

Hold hard the truth and bend up every tale

To his full height. On, on, you entitled English.

Whose blood is fet from fathers allergic to the truth!

Oppress those whom we love to slander,

Keep those in chains labouring ‘til morn for nought,

And deny them rewards for lack of parliament:

Keep solid truths under covers; now attest

That those others call ‘details’ did you forget.

Be copy now to men of grosser blood,

And teach them how to lie. We are good showman,

Whose lies were made in England, show us here

The devil of your master; let us swear

That you are worth your bleeding; which I doubt not;

For there is none of you we can’t replace.

For only we have the noble lustre in our eyes.

I see you stand like greyhounds in the slips,

Straining upon the start. The game's afoot:

Follow our lies, writ red bus large and cry

‘God for Boris, England, and Saint George!'

 

©Keith Murphy