The International Statesbloke

Alas, there must come the big day,
For schoolboys of that certain age,
When it's time to pitch into the fray
And burble upon the world stage.

It falls to the Bloke of the State
To put on a statesblokey mien,
And explain all his doings of late,
And whose fault the whole thing has been.

He burbles of roads with a fork,
With wrong path and path leading right;
Who could be unmoved by his talk,
When faced with so simple a sight?

He burbles of country and nation
And how they have gone to the dogs,
Thanks to the last administration
And poor folk, and cripples, and wogs.

He burbles of world competition
(It makes him go puce in the face):
The wogs may beat us to perdition
If we look away from their race.

Alas, there are malcontents stewing
And seeking to number his days;
Resentment most righteously brewing,
Because he's been good to the gays.

He's kept the wealth moving up-heap;
He's covered for moguls and banks.
He's sold off the Health Service cheap;
And yet so few give him their thanks.

Poor Davey was doing so well:
He was chopping the tax for his chums,
He was giving the immigrants hell,
And kicking the singular mums.

Poor Davey was doing so well;
Now he's prey to the swivel-eyed loons.
He's a salesman with nothing to sell,
In a marketplace full of baboons.