The Bard on the awful Boris
So it came to the last stand.
Around the high walls of the keep,
the massed armies of the media
gather and hoot and call names.
The Convict! The Greased Piglets!
They call for his head.
Johnson of Khartoum holds resolutely.
Many times before he has evaded
the gruesome fates of lesser mortals.
A Man for the Ages!
Stay firm, Johnson, he mothers to himself,
and splashes cold water on his face.
Yet as the siege stretches on
for long brutal months,
as the pile of bodies from the plague
grows high beyond the walls,
and the pile of bottles out the back
grows higher still,
outside the mob grows ever stronger.
He scans it with binoculars,
and sees them all: the natives,
the French, the Germans, the Scots,
the Northerners, the Little People,
and even a few familiar faces
from his own personal staff.
Could this be the end?
He sends a proposition to the media
and suggests a power sharing
Johnson will continue as Governor of Khartoum
for seven months, but surrender
leadership of the Pink Gin Luncheon Club.
The media return the messenger
lopped and with a rude message attached.
Wrapped in his Union Jack jumpsuit,
Johnson turns to address his loyal lieutenants
one final time
but the once grand hall is empty
save for some empty glasses rolling
on the dirty flagstones.
Outside the great doors, the clamor of the mob
grows louder and louder again.
Johnson of Khartoum,
lonely General of a last outpost of Empire,
wishes to stay;
but now must finally Brexit.
Victor Billot has previously felt moved to compose Odes for such luminaries as the Prime Minister, Louise Wallace, Mike Hosking, Clarke Gayford, Brian Tamaki, and Garrick Tremain.