Today it was announced that Boris Johnson had won a competition held by The Spectator magazine to find the most offensive poem about Turkish president Recep Erdogan.
His skill as a poet is I believe however slightly in question however, as his limerick doesn't really scan, included made up words and referred to Erdogan as being from Ankara, Turkey’s capital Ankara rather than Istanbul, where he actually grew up. It really is a bit rubbish, as you can read for yourself below:
There was a young fellow from Ankara,
Who was a terrific wankerer.
Till he sowed his wild oats,
With the help of a goat,
But he didn’t even stop to thankera.
However, inspired by Boris’ feeble attempt to follow Lord Byron by becoming a parliamentary poet, I decided to compose my own limerick about the former London mayor on the way to work:
There once was a man named Darius,
who wasn’t particularly pious.
When a hack found him out
He gave Boris a shout,
And didn't treat thugs like pariahs.
I did not stop there however, as while mortally wounded due to my first evermvoluntary visit to a gym, I decided to add to my political limerick collection with a few about other politicians, starting with Boris’ old rival Ken Livingstone:
I met an old man called Ken
Who seemed nice enough although then,
He decided to choose
To talk of Hitler and Jews,
And how newts were more loyal than men.
A ruddy cheeked fellow was Dave,
Who at uni was a bit of a knave.
An acquaintance once swore
He’d molested a boar
But he probably just went to a rave.
I met a bloke in the pub called Farage,
Whose views were came out in a barrage.
He blamed the barman, a Pole,
For his unspecified role
In the traffic jam blocking his garage.
A man of means was young Osborne,
Who had wealth from the moment he was born.
When his mate stood down,
He asked for his crown,
But his party replied that it was torn.
There once was a man named Jeremy,
Who thought, ‘Being leader is very me’.
But wishing problems away,
Didn’t win voting day,
And he admitted, ‘The voters have buried me’.
There was an old man called Skinner,
Whose jokes wore thinner and thinner.
He insulted Black Rod,
The silly old sod,
‘Cos in a fight there’d be only one winner.
I fell in love with a girl called Liz Kendall
But she spurned me in order to spend all,
Her time trying to say,
That winning’s okay,
To those who thought it not the be-all and end-all.
A chap in a flat cap called Andy,
Said, ‘alright our kid it’d be handy,
If I took myself forth
Became the King of the North,
But until then mine’s a half pint of shandy.’
A tough old bird was Theresa,
There‘s not many things which can please her.
Not imaginary cats
In luxurious flats
With human rights lawyers who tease her.
There was a wee lady named Sturgeon,
Who wanted to cut like a surgeon,
Her country away,
From the good old U.K.
Believing on its own it would burgeon.
If you think you can improve upon some of these, please feel free to use the comments to post your own political limerick — there must be a good one about Gerry Adams and his bizarre social media strategy — but I need to have a belated dinner.