The Truth about Goats
Twas the night before Brexit and all through the House
Of Commons, no sex occurred. No hand down a blouse.
The stockings were hung by the chimney with care,
With Gove hung by the neck and the treasury was bare
The voters were nestled all snug in their beds,
With dreams of border control, stuck in their heads.
And Ma with her Leave poster and I in my cap,
Had blamed the immigrants for all of our crap
When out of UKIP, there arose such a clatter,
Talk of democracy, as if that could matter.
Away to the polls I flew like a flash,
For straight bananas and N.H.S. cash.
Then, out of Boris’ arse what should appear?
A bus with numbers, but sources unclear.
Sitting atop a Farage, so lively and quick,
To apportion blame and EU pension to nick.
A bundle of trade agreements under his cape,
Tied up with some fairy lights but no more red tape.
With a divorce payment to pour down the drain,
He quaffed his pint and called Poles a rude name.
‘Now Junker! Now Davis! Now Merkel and Theresa May!’
Don’t mention that migrant workers are pulling my sleigh.
But I heard him exclaim, ere he drove out of sight,
HAPPY CHRISTMAS TO ALL, AS LONG AS YOU’RE WHITE!