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.


[August 2003]

From the book Make Mine A Double