My name is Michael Howard and I lead the Tory mob,
I face the future backwards, which I do not think is odd.
To see where I am going my genetics were recast,
and now my facial features have migrated to my arse.
My eyes and mouth, and other parts, have just a single place
with which to see the future come, one hole for all my face.
I see through what’s already there, I’m really full of it,
so foreign’s crap, and what I speak is singularly Brit.
That messenger’s an immigrant and therefore he is bad,
the message he is bringing must be very very sad—
and thus we denigrate the good ideas he’s brought,
so competitors acquire the efficiences we sought.
The responsibility for this competition lost
has to be the foreigners’—it never could be us—
and since we keep on losing, it must mean they conspire,
so all that’s left for us to do is say each one’s a liar.
This poem has been updated to reflect the great changes in the Tory Party since their hopeless and nasty nationalistic campaign of the 2001 election.