Poor Theresa May is finding this leaving lark tough,
Trump is coming a’calling just when Boris calls her bluff,
Boris’ untimely and boorish approach she should rebuff-
She ain’t no bloody Boadicea, but she’s made of stern stuff-
But she is oh so tempted to hand it to that tousle-haired scruff.
Let Bo take the tiny hand that slithers from the silken cuff,
A pedicured pampered hand, yet a touch… course and rough,
Let them bond over common interests; trade, markets, dandruff?
But Tess does know one red white and blue bastard is quite enough,
So she’ll smile, lie and try to think of England and not stalk off in a huff.
I awaited the New Press with eager eyes,
They looked, downcast, at its meagre size,
I’d heard there’d be much content within;
That argument is most evidently paper thin.
Apart from yesterdays news or next weeks TV guide,
My purchase of the Press can no longer be justified,
Claiming ‘less is more’ does not jibe with this scribe;
This is a poor wee paper to which I cannot subscribe.
My old school pal Robin has gone, God knows where,
He’s been gone ever so long, and I never knew,
The longer I live, the less this life seems fair,
And its too late to say ‘Robin, its been good to know you.’
I’m a bit under the weather up here in Montrose,
It started with a splash of rain, then every ruddy thing froze,
These Arctic conditions are really getting up my snotty nose,
I’m running round with a proboscis that both sucks and blows.
Dunfermline town is old, grey and dour,
Full of faces long and prospects poor,
Where every declivity becomes a hill to climb,
Where they shuffle through Kingsgate Mall, killing time,
Where the young have gone off, God knows where,
To them all that matters is it’s not here, but there.