He bears a cornucopia

of psychiatric symptoms

and gives me claustrophobia

when I spot him in the distance.

Instantly I'm lonelier,

that old familiar sickness:

the seasoned melancholia

that turkeys feel at Christmas.

No flunkey could be phonier,

he'd sell his gran for sixpence;

don't let him get close to you

without at least one witness.

Ignore the gloomy brochure:

he isn't kosher.

 

I know he'll speak of suicide

and the cuffs upon his wrists

will rise enough to catch my eyes

but I'm unconvinced by it.

I recognise who's bona fide

and he ain't on my list.

He starts a war and then subsides

when the touch-paper is lit;

he conquers you and then divides

your loyalties bit by bit;

he sells weapons to both sides

and claims that it's legit.

He's gamekeeper and poacher:

he isn't kosher.

 

I've had more than my quota

of his brainless, boorish banter.

There ought to be a rota,

someone else should have to answer.

He's a fickle floating voter

who is apt to pull a flanker

and needs dragging off that sofa

where his arse has dropped the anchor

as he plays the passive smoker

who infects me with a cancer.

I wish he were remoter

than the shores of Sri Lanka.

He's a hoodwinker and hoaxer:

he isn't kosher.