100 YEARS OLD AND STILL PAR­O­DY­ING PO­ETRY...

Daily Express - - LETTERS -

TODAY, we are in­spired by the Prime Min­is­ter to of­fer some Edgar Al­lan Poe-try. It is called The Craven: Once upon a mid­night dreary, while I

pon­dered, weak and weary, Over many a quaint and cu­ri­ous vol­ume

full of EU law – While I nod­ded, nearly nap­ping,

sud­denly there came a tap­ping, As of hordes of MPs rap­ping, rap­ping at

my of­fice door. “Just back­benchers there,” I mut­tered,

“tap­ping at my of­fice door – Only that and noth­ing more.” Ah, dis­tinctly I re­mem­ber it was in the

bleak Novem­ber And each pesky down­cast Mem­ber

threat­ened he would cross the floor. Ea­gerly I flexed my mus­cles, thought

of noth­ing else but Brus­sels And ne­go­ti­at­ing tus­sles, tus­sles which

were still in store, End­less talks with Mon­sieur Barnier,

Barmy Barny, what a bore Talk­ing, squawk­ing, ev­er­more. End­less talk­ing, never clos­ing, al­ways

noth­ing new propos­ing, Fur­ther clauses in­ter­pos­ing, more

amend­ments, more and more, Ea­gerly I sought ces­sa­tion, sought an

in­de­pen­dent na­tion Born from this pre­var­i­ca­tion, freed at

last from EU law. En­ergy-de­plet­ing meet­ings, French­men

cheating nev­er­more. Brus­sels bleat­ing nev­er­more. Then the tap­ping grew in­ten­sive,

mak­ing me more ap­pre­hen­sive, With a vol­ume quite of­fen­sive, echoed

down the cor­ri­dor. “What d’you want?” I cried in­tently,

then I ut­tered, far more gen­tly, Al­most rec­on­ciled, con­tently: “Come in

now, or else with­draw.” But the rap­ping just con­tin­ued, dron­ing

on like Jac­ques Delors. So I opened wide the door. Deep into the dark­ness gaz­ing, what I

saw with eye­balls blaz­ing, Was amaz­ing, al­most craz­ing, cow­er­ing

there be­hind my door, Forty mem­bers from my party, craven,

squeak­ing like cas­trati, Reek­ing of some cheap Fras­cati, like

some old, bedrag­gled corps. “Your con­tin­ued lead­er­ship,” they said,

“is some­thing we de­plore. Boris was the fi­nal straw.” Then I si­lenced them with laugh­ter,

filled the room from floor to rafter, “Naught,” said I, “could quite be dafter

than the plot you have in store. You have come here to abase me,

chase me out of of­fice, face me With your threats, but who’ll re­place

me if I meekly now with­draw?” “You have raised a point,” they said

“we should have reck­oned on be­fore. We’ll get back to you for sure.” Staunchly I re­turned to Brexit, fix it

‘ere some­body wrecks it, Find my mus­cle first then flex it, strong

and sta­ble, as of yore. Now is not the time to cower, Barnier

shall feel my power, Leave it till th’ eleventh hour, with a

ploy he can’t ig­nore: His de­mands for money I shall an­swer

with a loud guf­faw. Move all Bri­tish funds off­shore.

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