She was unused to the retral position,
With a man so steadfast and strong,
But her exculpatory reason,
Told her that this was all wrong!
Though when he held her against the door,
Of the Stationery Cupboard that night,
And thrust his way up deep and up hard,
She could only cry, "yes! that's right!"
On Elizabeth's Heart was writ 'England!'
Victoria, was never amused,
The Blessed Margaret was Steadfast and True,
Poor Teri was cruelly abused;
And now she had taken Two Lovers,
Of different genders, it's true,
Could she really uphold the Conservative Dream,
Of Disraeli and Churchill and Thatcher too?
Was she truly as Blue as she'd thought?
Or Orange like her Belfast Bike?
Did she really believe in One nation?
Or did it stop at Offa's Dyke?
"Oh, Fuck!" she said, "let the Tartan Hordes
Have all that's past Hadrian's Wall.
Let the Cambrian Celts have Wales to themselves,
And the Irish have Ireland and all!
I'm an Englishman inside this Woman's frame,
And I'll fuck anybody I please,
And once we're free of the EU's grip,
I can dine on Wensleydale Cheese!"
And MacFarlane, her Chef de Cabinet,
Took his tongue slowly out of her mouth,
"I've been lodged in the Polar North,"
Said he, "Now I'll sup in the tropical South!"
And he fell to his knees, and buried his face
In the steamy regions between
Her wide open thighs, and Brazilian Trim,
And that was the terrible scene,
The greeted Phillipe Tout le Monde,
The Chancellor, when he popped in,
For a couple of paper-clips, envelopes too,
And it certainly wiped off his grin!
For there was the Madam PM with her legs,
Draped around MacFarlane's neck,
As he sucked and slobbered and tongued and nibbled
And she looked like a shagged-out wreck!
And behind him and staring with eyes out on stalks,
Was her DUP lover Tangerine,
Who roared, "Fuck our Special Relationship now,
No Surrender will suit us Sinn Fein!"