Nine Limericks for Tony Blair
Our Thatcherite Anthony Lynton,
What sands he has left his poor print on!
And as for my thoughts
On their seaside resorts -
If Margaret’s Hove, then he’s Frinton.
Oh Tony’s the lord of the dance,
To the left and the right, how he plants
His trotters, the pig!
Yet how jolly his jig:
More Flatley than Attlee, perchance.
Bad Company’s heard on his Sony,
But perhaps this is flattering Tony -
There are some baby boomers
Who spread ugly rumours
He loves the Shondells (Mony, Mony).
Clinton loved A. Lynton Blair:
In fact, they had quite an affair.
But when shove came to push
Tony went for George Bush:
The sheer whiff of power, I swear.
Mr. Blair dreamed he had a light sabre,
Was a Jedi, could beggar his neighbour.
Alas, he awoke
In a cold puff of smoke:
They had sentenced him back to Hard Labour.
Mandelson went; he was soapless.
Cried Tony, “Cherie, would the Pope bless
This Utopian thing?”
But alas he was Bing
As in Crosby, but palpably Hope-less.
Like many a premier, Tone is
A dog which should know where its bone is,
A mule seeking motion,
A fish searching ocean,
Though he thinks that he’s really Adonis.
Tony! The firebrand parson!
With a hot mouth which no zip can fasten!
He could set you alight
With his brimstone all right
If he just knew his elbow from arson.
The angels approached Mr. Blair
And they gave him a wing and a prayer,
But his minders and minions
Soon broke off the pinions,
And frisbeed his halo. So there.