HA! What you saying, you clownish creature?
With impudence your defining feature
I must say that you lie quite boldly
About cheese and wine
Devoured by you at Downing Street
In desperate times.

You ugly, creepin, blasted liar
Detested, shunned, as you conspire
To redact the report that’s now required
Into your boozing
From every pore your villainy
Is thickly oozing.

Shoo, off to a Tory fundraising function
There you may bluster and malfunction
Without even a hint of compunction
For letting bodies pile high
Or funnelling funds to crooks and cronies
For PPE supplies.

With luck you spent a week in isolation
Protected from the voters’ indignation
But that excuse had a limited duration
And now you’re exposed
Are you searching for a source of refrigeration
In which to be enclosed?

In trying to come to your defence
Dominic Raab offered his two cents
The atmosphere became rather tense
When “party” slipped out
He’d forgotten the business meeting pretence
Was the one to spout.

Other ministers kept things neat
By pressing copy and paste on a tweet
In the hope of keeping a Cabinet seat
Should you cling on
While keeping Liz or Rishi sweet
For when you’re gone.

Christian Wakeford crossed the floor
At which the opposition roared
You were lucky not to lose any more
In similar stunts
Labour waved him through the door
Not knowing he’d called them c***ts.

Even lightweight Douglas Ross
Has shown a red card to you, his boss
In fact every Tory MSP is cross
About No 10 scenes
Might they take their social distancing
To new extremes?

Will these Conservatives go it alone
Or be content to mump and moan
In hope a civil servant’s shown enough
To end this farce?
This could be the culmination of what’s known
As Operation Arse.

But do you care about North Britain
And how the party names are written?
Who cares if Annie Wells is smitten
With today’s Big Dog?
Her home is a place you’d gladly shit on
Or cheaply flog.

This week’s report is eagerly awaited
The breath of whole UK is bated
Poised to read what verdict’s stated
And facts reported
Will you somehow emerge un-slated,
And the public thwarted?

We will not be surprised to spy
Some black-out when the ink is dry
And you fingering a new fall-guy
To take the blame
Could the chap with the suitcase full of plonk
Be in the frame?

Oh Boris, dinnae toss your head
To pretend you just got out of bed
And distract from every word that’s said
We know it’s an act
It’ll take more than mumbling “ums” and “errs”
To get you back on track.

How dare you dirty that leather bench
And fill Westminster’s corridors with the stench
Of corruption that’s now so entrenched
It’s past redemption
Of course you had your wine-thirst quenched
Then made up an exemption.

O would some power the giftie gie you
To see yourself as Sue Gray sees you
It would from many a headline free you
If you’d just resign
Prove to everyone who loathes you
That you have a spine.