Hugh King Not even Charlemagne, when at his height, Could match your grandeur, majesty and might. The Holy Roman Empire sought in vain The splendour and extent of your domain. From Padua to Plonsk and Pontypool Eight hundred million souls enjoy your rule. Yet poor, benighted Brits will not receive Your masterly direction when they leave. You’re famed for your urbanity and charm, And only bitter cynics call it smarm. Your clever leaks made Mrs May a clown: What fun to kick a person when she’s down! When Dave, before the referendum, said He needed help, you smiled and shook your head. And now the Brexit poo will hit the punkah While you look on serenely, Jean-Claude Juncker.
W.J. Webster With warmth and brilliance in his nature one He shines upon us like a human Sun: There is no Heart his radiance cannot reach, No Mind resistant to his ardent speech; Fire burns within him like a flaming brand First sparked by Fidel then by Hugo fanned; Ignited from that fire the torch he bears In these benighted times more brightly flares; From his iron grip it never shall be wrenched, Nor shall its beacon blaze be ever quenched.
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