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The Boris Chronicles — Part 2



Boris donned his new tailcoat and white dickey bow But to be dressed like a penguin was the least of his woes, Twelve hundred more students all looked this meticulous ‘Twas that mop of straw hair that made him ridiculous.


He stood out absurdly — a proverbial sore thumb, What chance did this butterball have finding chums? Boys were repelled by his insouciant manner Peering through his blonde lockes like Lady Diana.


Confined with the scholars there was no need to mix With the bully-toffs champing to knock him for six. This explains why now critics attack him so much… For being of the common man so out of touch!


His hair, wit and gaite, all deliberate quirks. That posturing penchant to constantly shirk. Those classical bokes often lay in a heap Whilst our scholar skimmed jazz mags or caught up on sleep.


Still, as Richard the Third in that play he did shine Even though he neglected to learn the bard’s lines. He strutted, cock-sure, in his robes, drenched in sweat, Squinting hard at his words pinned on bits of the set.


This mop-haired insurgent, this fat Rupert Grint. His pace was the amble with a last minute sprint. But all this charade of rebellion was a joke Chancer Boris was in fact an establishment bloke.


In chapel he’d worship with a stout pair of lungs Good to bellow out hymns in that dead Roman tongue, And prayers he’d recite with a scholarly rigour, Painful kneeling contorting his corpulent figure.


One sporte at which he was completely invincible, Was the Wall Game, with rules that are incomprehensible. To fop Johnson, twas a gift, he was picked for his size, Stout thumbs oft were used to gouge out tender eyes!


At rugby, aggression was equally feckless, When tackling he’d use trunk-like arms as a necklace. Stamping heads, punching gobs, an industrious worker Screaming over the line like a rampant berserker.


Such fyne deeds on the sports field held him in good stead Despite some opponents who ended up dead! He’d now built a circle of keen hangers-on Not least that baby-faced twot, David Cameron.


“The seat is now warm, sir” Dave’s morning refrain “It’ll offer more comfort while you take the strain. I’ve ironed your paper to smooth out the print When you put out that fag, you can suck on this mint”


Now Boris knew one day that he’d run the show, And to make that near-certain to Oxford he’d go, How on earth he got in is as much of a mystery As how he’s become such a part of our history…

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