Gordon The Third, Act One Scene One

(With the usual apologies to The Bard.)

Now comes another winter of discontent
Made gloriously worse by this son of the Manse
And all the clouds that lour'd upon our shores
Rain down the torrent grown by his mismanagement.
Now Darling's brows are bound with victorious wreaths;
Yet our bruised wallets can afford no monuments;
Our stern alarums changed to redundancy meetings,
Our dreadful march continues to utter bankruptcy.
Grim-visaged War still holds his wrinkled front;
Yet now, instead of mounting barbed steeds
to fright the souls of fearful adversaries
He capers nimbly in an unarmoured 'snatch' Landrover
To please the ego of one man's 'War on Terror'.

But he, that is not shaped for sportive tricks
Nor made to look like normal human form
He that is rudely-spoke, and wants intellect's majesty
Still struts before a wanton, grov'ling Cabinet.
He whose Budgets have lacked fair proportion,
Cheated us of truth by dissembling replies,
Ill-informed, unwitted, sent before his election
Into that Downing Street with scarce half a clue,
And that so lamely and dishonestly
That Germans laugh at him as he lectures them,
Has left us no delights to pass away the time,
Unless to spy him leaking to Nick Robinson,
And to be dismissive of his own insanity.