Boris Johnson ‘s buses

Wooden crates and paintings
Of happy folk, to me
It is his cry above all else
Of non-conformity
The word eccentricity
Can sometimes be a way
Of explaining but somehow I feel
Its rejection thats at play

He feels he is a child at heart
And is not understood
Eager to please and emotional
He does want to be good
But the child in him is overwhelmed
By the non chalance out there
He is the opposite of a pachyderm
He feels things fair and square

His wittiness is plain to see
Some see it as absurdity
And so he extends his repartee
His biting wit and his drollery
And each euphuistic remedy
Tongue in cheek and posteringly
May come across as bogus even as insincere
But I still feel he is hopeful
But does harbour fear

His incautiousness is catching
As is his impetuosity
Buses crates all obviates
Its his indiscretions
Which infuriates
The Press the TV
And those who try
To breach his defences
And by and by

He remains aloof
In his private world
Where circumstances have now hurled
Him out into the limelight
Where he
Appears stand-offish and a shade haughty

He is wearing the boots of his father
In purdah marooned so to say
Constantly told that he makes all these gaffes
And therfore wants to hideaway
But is frantically searching for love
And desire
For truth and endearment it may
He is all alone in a very big world
Knowing inside what to say

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