It’s a dark day behind the black door at 10 Downing street,
Boris’s short tenure here isn’t going quite as he’d planned-
From victory over Brexit and savouring Labours defeat
To solitary confinement in the best address in the land.
He can’t simply shamble outdoors, he can’t meet or greet,
Stuck in bed, sat at home at the doctors express command,
His tousled look looks too real, with his pale face white as a sheet?
Nah, not even his (gl)amorous girlfriend wants to take his… hand.
Of Paris’ Bohemian quarter Lonely Planet has enlightengly writ
Even in it’s darkest corner it’s denizens look well lit,
This is one part of Paris they highly recommend you hit.
(Not recommended if you can’t face a toxicology kit.)
Outside the Cafe Rouge we found a place to sit;
Parisiennes are a passionate people we’ll readily admit,
Young lovers stroll by, clasping hands, or tit,
Sucking face and Gauloises wherever they see fit,
Here, french kissing doesn’t mean you have to quit.
Then, when they come up for air, they breath, smile and spit!
Their aimless nonchalance does Parissiens little credit,
All this phlegmy frenchness is begining to wear, a bit,
Ah, the French have style and culture, who could doubt it?
But as I wipe my sleeve, I believe I could do without it.
Don strolled self-assuredly down the Tel Aviv runway,
He reached for Melania’s hand in a husbandly way,
With a stony look she batted it scornfully away,
Such an eloquent way of doing what she wishes to say.