The Boris Chronicles - Part 1
Updated: Jul 3, 2019
This is the first of a verse series chronicling the life of our potential Prime Minister, Boris Johnson. It concerns his early childhood, leading up to his enrollment at that little-known school under the Heathrow flightpath down near Windsor, Eton.
Part One — The Early Years
Whilom ther was dwellynge in sixties New Yorke, A studente ful yonge, comely wif in supporte, Stanley Johnson his name, who, I swere this be trewe, Rede bokes economic preyinge gold wold accrue.
While they bothe unpacked chattels in chepe rented digs, Wif Charlotte stopped painting her still life of figs. “Your hot luste is relentless, it has us undone…. Now in my round ovene bakes a sizeable bunne!”
“Dere Godde “ speke Stan, “That newes is ful drastic, A pox on those badly hewn oolde prophylactics” The berthe was titanic, and instead of a Taurus, Was born a stout Gemini, strangely named ‘Boris’
At the pram in the park passing Yanks they did stare, Swiche a sweete tubby cherub! Swiche a shok of whit her! Swadeled in rough cloothe in a manere ascetic, His eies a bright blue, a colore mooste prophetic.
Stan’s ‘jonson’ kept busy with its usual trickes - In a blink of lewd eyes they were a family of six! This frenzied child-bearing, like the Sultans of Oolde, Mente poore Stan hadde to travele whilst lokin for golde.
From Oxforde to Brussels, Exmoor to Connecticut They criss-crossed the globe with impeccable etiquette. But a family so hefty is a burden indeed, Poor Boris! Mum’s attentions did sadly recede…
Alas at his rough day-scole, close frendships were rare And his Y-fronts on wedgie-pegs often did tear. He was called the ‘fatte deffe kide’ and of thumps bore the brunt So to board in East Sussex they packed the poore runte.
He ofte blubbed in his dorme, leking roofe up above, Scoffing biscuits and reding the Greke bokes he did love, This time it was teachers he’d dodge, and their canes! His tactic? To pretend that he had a bigge brain.
“My destinee is clere, am to be the ‘World King’ Of my corpulent glory will concubines sing” He ranted and raved in that useless oolde Latin, Shoveling mete down his gullet so his tummy would faten.
By aged twelve he had lerned of the sportes of the regal, Trussed in red, tooting horns, with a pack of fine beagles, Swiche a royal pursuit, and what fabulous steeds, But not good for the fox’s emotional needs!
Butte that’s fine, Kings must lerne to be cruel to the plebs So he built up the strength in his piston-like legs, Playing rugby he’d stomp and he’d stamp down the wing, And in mauls and in rucks his plump fistes he would swing.
There was only one school to complete his King’s training, Where many world rulers lerne the art of good reigning. In the end swotty Boris made sure no-one beat him, He became a Kings Scholare at snotty Olde Eton.