Sonnet That’s Not Funny!

 

It is a truth which I have long acknowledged, that a man, or indeed a woman, in possession of a fascistic turn of mind must be in want of a sense of humour. Various creative events, involving Led by Donkeys appear to have vindicated my position. 

 

Shall I compare thee to a lettuce, Liz?

Word salad, wilted ’s served when you’re on tour;

That Iceberg’s fit for neither man nor pigs,

We’re sick to death of your menu du jour.

 

Your veggie offering’s now but one sad leaf,

And limply dangles like that Johnson, spent! 

Out, out, the candle of your tenure brief,

Now rotting from the head, its stench augments.

 

The NHS you’ve left upon its knees,

No starter homes built thee, zilch zero none!

“Disgrace!” you cried, but all you mourned was “cheese!”

Now off to hell, we’re in a handcart gone.

We Britons, long enmired by this foul arse,

Its other cheek have kissed; on with the farce!

 

 

Uilleam Ó Ceallaigh 22nd August 2024