A Press Conference with Boris Johnson


An Oxford man of pale and pasty wit

– part French part Russian but a sort of Brit –

liked to discuss the pickings of his nose

to all who’d nod in assent and repose

upon the flabby couch of nonsense where,

intent on using pens to pin their hair

during the anxious stillness which ensued

– while many nails were nibbled, many chewed

and a dread fear of silence began to grow –

he’d make it clear that Truth was a no go.


Then looking at not much, he would allow

a testy wince to flick across his brow:

‘Let none of you presume to generalize –

such thoughts are but a thin disguise,

a frail veneer to hide the ugly fact –

no truth, though blessed with beauty, is intact

but at the slightest probe must fall apart

and break the dreamer’s foolish naïve heart.

You seek on earth what only lives in books –

a faithful man, in whom to sink your hooks.

Ha! Universal truth, like love, is sought in vain –

neither make sense outside their temporal plane,

restricted to their moments’ present tense.

So how can Shakespeare to our ears make sense

or sweet tongued Milton, or that smart John Donne

who may not still be read in years to come?

All hearts are foreign, even those we know;

each lover thinks he judges right although

the softest kisses, seeds of cancer sow.

And wedding rings and offspring? – Just for show.'


The press conference continued without fuss

while all of England suffered brains concussed.

Now some hold out the plank of dunce,

as others queue to each headbang it once.