If I'm made to recall Rishi Sunak
I imagine him sucking his thumb,
one hand under his bum,
and he's sat on the naughty step.
The naughty step of inconsequence.
It's not one of those from school
with its cheap plastic tiles and rubber,
that would be beneath these fools -
only in another universe, intellegis?
No, Rishi's is carpeted, soft, plum,
but a step's a step, he'll blubber.
"Oh, but it's just not fair", he'll blubber.
"Boris stole my sweeties,
and Rwanda was his treatise."
"Pants on fire!" Boris will scoff.
He's just one step above and behind,
on the naughty step of incompetence.
He's not far to land, if he falls,
to the soft, plum step of inconsequence.
"Suella made me do it!"
"ANTISEMITE!" Suella will screech
from somewhere imperceivable,
high on the naughty step of cruelty.
A step so far removed it feels unreal.
"Now now, children," will croak Keir
from the lectern of equivalence.
"I don't care who started it,
what matters is I'm here to finish it."
And with that he'll take his place,
placidly and unconvincingly,
on the podium of intransigence.
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