It's All Gone A Bit Michael Gove

'Twas Brexit, and the slimy Goves
Did fib and wibble in the wreck;
All flimsy were the Boris coves,
Yet brazen was their neck.

"Beware the Haystack, husband mine!
The jaws that fib, the tongue that forks!"
So ordered creepy Mistress Vine
Before the torrid talks.

In greasy grip he took his sword -
Not by the hilt, but by the blade;
For warnings that he'd end up gored
Were by mere experts made.

And as in some distress he hopped
And tried to re-attach his thumb,
The Haystack came, and grinned and flopped,
And burbled at its chum.

"One two! One two! When I am crowned,
I'll take the fillies, you the flak!"
He plucked the sword from off the ground
And stabbed it in the back.

"And hast thou stopped the Haystack here?
A Grub Street boy who likes to win!
Come goose-step with Lord Rothermere
And bask in Murdoch's grin!"

'Twas Brexit, and the slimy Goves
Were asked about the mess.
All piggy pinks and mottled mauves:
"No clue, we must confess."

Dodger Clewlis