In Honour Of the Official State Visit of United States President Donald J. Trump to the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland on this the Third Day of June in the Year of Our Lord Two Thousand and Nineteen.
Welcome to the milky Motherland, plump potentate.
While you’re in our hall of mirrors, take the time
to look about. Look closely and you’ll see yourself
as we see you. Who are you, then?
(That’s if you even have the eyes
to see the truth.)
Do you really think that silly
cotton candy hat looks good?
Does that ginger tom foundation stain
the linen of your lonely, burger’d, bed?
How many snakes, exactly, knot
into the tightening nexus
of your seething head?
And when you do unglue
and lever out those bought-in teeth,
What’s lying underneath?
You’re trade; you’re bought and sold; of Queens.
You have an escort, not a consort, for a wife.
You think that fronting up
and fronting out
can get a bullshit merchant
through a simulacrum of a life.
We gag to see you gleefully contort
to please the lowest of the lowest sort,
and at the same time bending over
for a bare-chest bareback riding,
vodka-drinking cutie boy;
you’re a tawdry orange beachball
of a tchotchke toy
with a stream of sewage tumbling
from your starfish mouth
as your once-great nation
slowly slithers back – and South.
Well, just for now,
For now, alright, we’ll polish up
the silver pieces; wind our smiles tight.
In the words of Mr Johnson, Englan’ is a bitch
and this unnerved, uncertain England
is prepared to be your bitch
For these few days
and just for now
(for we are old and wise and
know you’ll soon be out),
and so, for now (but just until
you’re rotting with the other dirt),
this seasoned bitch will condescend to flirt.
Her Majesty will wash her hands and
shampoo all the carpets once you’re gone.
We’ll fumigate the whole of Westminster,
and carry on.