Boris, too short
Natasha, too thin
Which fairly describes
the pickle they’re in
Rocky’s got them surrounded
with friends tall and/or fat
including Bullwinkle Moose
~ who on both of them sat
intrigued by thesaurus
given by Joe Morris
look up the word porous
who? asks my friend Doris
amusing my friend Boris
a gift from friend Morris
I love a thesaurus
this takes care of Doris
I relook up porous
amusing my friend Boris
A Brit politician named Boris
Who spoke like he ate a thesaurus
Became the head bloke
Which seemed like a joke
As his morals were somewhat porous
Boris the brave kneels at the feet of the remnants of his castle’s gate.
The battle was rough, and he wonders now if he might be too late.
Where are the ladies in waiting? What of the queen?
The Wayfarer army was the toughest one the knights had ever seen.
Village is in ruins. The townspeople are probably in the hills or worse.
Boris kneels in confusion, and spies a tiny velvet embroidered purse.
There is a note inside, written in a hand he recognizes right away.
We are in Sheridan Valley, we left the eighth eve of May.
Two knights soon join him, and kneel at his left side.
They are also of the round table, beside him they always ride.
He senses them as they drop a knee and gives praise to Yost his God.
That he has spared the life of his pals Sir Frederick and Sir Bod.
Boris gives thanks to the gods that his lady had the presence of mind.
To leave this tiny bit of hope for him and her cherished purse behind.
He heads out toward Sheridan with hope in his heart that is pure.
Of course he is carrying the favorite purse of his darling Lady Cure.
Do you remember Boris; back in 2020
A virus was about to break, yet people
None the wiser ' at first he said no real
Big stuff, along with Holland we should face it tough.'
he'd been briefed then by whitty..Dear oh
Dear, three weeks on the tone was changed
To science he'd listen.' Pray come again.?
He caught bad covid He got laid low, said
Once better I'm now immune, and his mask did throw..' Oh
Naughty boy the 'experts pounced' his new
Found freedom in public he renounced, the
Pharmacy groups, exhaled a sigh' cash was
Flowing newscasters cried.' Children scared
Playgrounds closed, £8000 per covid death nhs
Were paid, so back to today He's waving bye
But what was truth? and were there lies? well
Rules and parties We've heard of much, but I'm
Not convinced (that it was such) such a scandal
If You'll look through the list of events think of
Cummings and Flemming too train rides at large
And lovers under cover they knew the game
Then dear sisters and brothers.'
PM Boris Johnson wrestles with bad hair days, but he doesn't seem to care!
Would some kind soul lend the bloke a comb and brush to tame his tousled hair!
Boris Becker
misused his pecker
He had sex in a closet
leaving a baby deposit!
Inspired by Brian Strands' poem Becker which was about an artist and my poem is posted with his kind permission
Tennis player Boris Becker had sex in a restaurant closet with a model he'd just met. Becker acknowledged paternity of a daughter, Anna, with Russian waitress Angela Ermakova, not surprisingly his marriage ended!
09/28/21
It's nearly time for PMQs
Said Boris, and I've blocked the bog
With one of my enormous poos
It's nearly time for PMQ's
It's hard to verbally abuse
The opposition when your log
Is staring at you. PMQs
Said Boris, and I've blocked the bog
© Gail Foster 18th November 2020
Two weeks of sun at Xmas and new year
Palm Oasis in our nineteenth year
Always a joy around the pool we sat
Never did we think to make a friend
Called Boris the cat
The old chap was friendly and his nose had seen many battles
We called him Boris as he resembled our Prime Minister
His white fur also a mess but not so sinister
He would take his afternoon nap
Curled up on Rita's lap
Both seemed to enjoy each others friendship
Laying in the sun
Now both new friends sharing fun
Two weeks flew by lazy by the pool
But it was now over and time to go
We love you Boris and see you again in two years
You never know
continues ....
(for it 'twas by him that she was awoken).
'Dont listen to hate, or give in to fear,
He said with a countenance kindly,
remember your Vedas and mantras,
Let your be life be lived for the many,
and not for the few,
don't be led into fascism blindly'!
With these wise, timely words in her ears she awoke,
And said by Krishna! I feel so much better,
I must give to the poor and buy the big issue
off that bloke,
the one that's got the red setter.
Now she's totally restored to full yogic health,
and she volunteers at the hospice on Sundays,
'Social welfare should be funded by taxes on wealth!'
She says now, and every Monday
Suzanne can be found (when no one's around)
doing good deeds,
for strangers,
by stealth.
Gone is the curse of the ware squirrel,
but, what of Cyril?
Surely, there must be some news?
The rumour is that he joined Conservative Home,
And now works for Boris in Tory HQ.
Brexit!
The dreaded word,
haunts us once again,
Oh!Visions of doom, burst and gloom!
lies and false promises spun in looms,
In Houses of Parliament rooms,
To craft election win,
And enforce,
Brexit!
A red- letter day Rictameter poetry Contest
Shall I compare thee unto a crate of beer,
or, if not that, then unto washing powder?
Today I shun all things that are austere;
soft tones must yield to songs that are far louder.
May's shandy was for working men too sweet.
Newcastle Brown for them is much more dandy.
Reese-Mogg appealed but to the high elite.
It's Boris now who's dealing out the candy.
His soap suds as detergents wash much whiter
and his packaging's so appealing to the eye.
My desire 's for something that's much brighter
than the dowdy hues of Mr. Corbyn's dye.
Boris we hail victor, for'tis he who's won the day.
To his product though a question. Who art thou anyway?
I wielded my sword
And slayed the foul dragon,
Then crammed the vile beast
Right back in his flagon.
Pickled and sodden
There will he lie
Few to remember
Fewer to cry.
Obnoxious his deeds,
Destructive his breath,
His venom pervasive,
So glad for his death.
Now we can harness
Our thoughts and our prayers,
Be kind and productive
Not just dragon slayers.
This noble island
This hallowed soil,
So very much more
Than one man’s spoil.
Let the healing commence,
Work as one to achieve,
A country in which
We all so believe.
A land of invention,
Of Shakespeare and Keats,
Of boundless endeavor,
Whose heart strongly beats.
Remember people didn’t vote for this.
They didn’t anticipate the lies.
Remember people value truth and
the way you talk to them confirms it’s
them you despise.
Remember this country is not something
that belongs to you, it’s culture, people
and history were formed by so many
battle cries.
Remember the British people are real
and not to be judged as fools by you,
your cronies and political allies.
Remember that you’re a servant to the
people and it’s the people who rule you
before you utter any more bull and lies.
Quis? Ego
~ on the anointing of Alexander Boris de Pfeffel Johnson
So what if it was just a drunken dare
Quis? Ego! Made at Eton long ago
I dub thee Boris of the Golden Hair
Servus, servum, servi, servo, servo
So what if afterwards they went to town
and ordered tiny sparrows stuffed inside
six rare exotic birds and chased it down
with virgins' tears in mouths so open wide
one could believe designed to fit the poor
in at such times there are no partridges
Amo! Amas! Deus! Deum! and more
Dom Perignon! To Boris! Boris is
The Chosen One! So long ago, the dare
At Eton, or more probably, elsewhere
© Gail Foster 24th July 2019
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