101 YEARS OLD AND STILL RAPPING RAPACIOUSLY ...

WITH all the politicking going on these days, I cannot resist the temptation to produce another piece of Edgar Allan Poetry, so here goes with my latest parody of The Raven. Once upon a mid-term dreary, while I

pondered, weak and bleary Over many a quaint and curious tome

of European law, While I nodded, nearly napping,

suddenly there came a tapping, As of someone gently rapping, rapping

on my office door. “It’s some journalist,” I muttered,

“tapping on my office door, Only that and nothing more.” Ah distinctly I recall it, tapping feebly,

soft and small, it Almost begged me then to stall it,

knocking there upon my door. Should I face it, hit it, maul it? Or with

siren’s voice enthral it, Should I silently stonewall it, as it

rapped upon my door? “Go away, it’s late,” I shouted, “e’er

you fall asleep and snore, That’s a sound which I abhor.” But the sound grew more insistent,

never, as I’d hoped, more distant, More persistent, more consistent,

stronger, louder, more and more. Through my mind raced theories

various: all unpleasant, all nefarious, All my enemies gregarious, now were

rapping on my door, Conflict made my job precarious, even

more than ‘twas before, This undiplomatic corps. Who could be these wretched rappers,

going for it like the clappers, Like a troupe of dapper flappers

playing tap-dance on my door? Beating on its very timbers, like

percussionists’ marimbas, Joyful they, like Disney Simbas, plot

my downfall with a roar. Rebels with a lion’s roar. Gone my hopes of restful slumber as

the rappers grew in number, As I sought to disencumber all my

thoughts from rage galore, Customs Union, Single Market, Europe

keeps me in the dark, it Leaves me now with options stark, it

draws red lines I can’t ignore. Windrush people, Irish border, out of

order, what a chore! Worse than ever heretofore. Macron, Barnier and Putin cannot wait

to put the boot in, All my dreams and hopes confutin’, in a

manner I deplore. Can’t they see my situation, in this

disunited nation, Cabinet disintegration, Tory party civil

war? My best plans have been rejected, lie

neglected on the floor. Wiped out like a dinosaur. How can I survive this fighting?

Snarling, scratching, carping, biting? Is it time for memoir writing, take

retirement, chew the cud? Take up something less exciting, seek

high ground, escape the flood. Somesuch action seems inviting, flee

before I’m drained of blood. No! I’ll prove I’m not a dud: I can

clamber through this mud. Throw the rap pack Amber Rudd.