Bill Greenwell/Jeremy Hunt Jeremio: Though I be pale, and far beyond the pale, As artless in my art as rural clown, Yet shall I hitch my waggon to that she As hums at hems, and lights on leather hose With half-conceal’d excitement. What bold sir Doth not this sycophancy entertain, That there be sport in buttering the lip Of such an one? Ay, deputies survive, And thrive by thrifty means. Hand her the conch, I’ll stand abreast with her, yet at an angle — A loyal wretch, a cozener withal, The trusty that she tenders with her life. I am her man, unmanned but to her face, Bold in my braggart blood. Bring envoys in! Wast I afeard of physick, or the surgeon? I’ll prosper in this murk, until I burgeon.
Alan Millard/Boris Johnson Men must at times be masters of their fate. I know too well whose leopard shoes these are. ’Tis true, I once admired them, trod their sods Till, led into the mire, I went my way While others turncoat turned and, in their trail Ran with the hares whilst hunting with the hounds; Her courage and resilience many praised And in her vision of a Britain freed From bonds believed, though bound in bonds she stayed. But I to economic vassalage Was not resigned and so, with pluck, resigned — Plucked in an instant from her entourage! Yet, dithering not, I, Boris, do return And would, with due consent, her mantle wear, And, building from her dross a citadel, Unite this Party, House and Land as well.
Frank McDonald/Theresa May Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow Creeps in this Brexit thing from day to day And all our yesterdays have summoned fools To falter for an hour upon the stage Without a resolution to this tale. My way of life as proud Prime Minister Has fallen into a sewer of disrepute And I am paid mouth honour, pallid praise, By those who would affect to call me friend. Out! Out! The country cries and once I thought Their rancour was with European chains But now I sense the clamour is for me To quit the stage and play my part no more. So few have faith in projects I propose That it might better be to abdicate Before my onetime allies seal my fate.
D.A. Prince/Theresa May Now might I do it, splat, now he’s still playing the Fool of Fools. A letter-box! What witless toad would set such thoughts in print — yet, stay. Fool he may be but Folly lures the crowd and who in true-blue shires and county fastnesses would wish that light eclipsed? When loss of Office dented not his pomp, his self-inflation alike to a balloon, what powers have I, mere Prime? Ah, but a woman holds the power to eye the future like a hawk in flight. To splat him now’d bestow a martyrdom which he would ripely use. Yet to hold back is read among illiterates in the Press as impotence. Thus does the winner lose, the Fool survive for more enormity. Oh, may the gods of pratfalls work their worst.
David Silverman/Boris Johnson Oh what a rogue, unpleasant knave am I, To whom these apparitions do appear! Thrice wyrd, like letterboxes, they portend Some goodly fortune surely this way comes. Once mere Spectator, plied my noble trade, Then Thane of London, now of Uxbridge Thane — Methinks they bode yet greater fame than this. ‘Hail, Boris, Thane of Downing Street’ their cry. Blow, winds! And shake the darling Rudds and Mays, The Raabs and Goves and Rees-Moggs all avaunt! They have their Brexits and their entrances Yet greatness comes from sterner stuff than this! I’ll play the jester, act the fool and then With jolly japes and antic disposition I’ll woo the common groundlings, by this show, That think one honest, that but seemeth so.
Tim Raikes/Theresa May To leave, or not to leave — that is the question: Whether ’tis nobler in this House to suffer The slings and arrows of outrageous Brexiteers Or to take arms against a sea of rebels And by opposing end them. To sack them all — Tonight in one fell swoop, and so to end The heartache, and the thousand natural shocks That I am heir to. ’Tis a consummation Devoutly to be wished. To sack, to sleep At last — perchance to dream; ay, there’s the rub, For in that well earned sleep what dreams may come When we have shuffled off this deadly toil Of Brexit, that hampers now our every Best intention. In one bound shall we be free, For I would rather bear those ills we have Than fly to others that we know not of.
Your next challenge is to provide a happy ending for a famous play, novel or poem that ends badly (please specify). Please email entries of up to 16 lines/150 words to lucy@spectator.co.uk by midday on 5 September.
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