The Tory Party

by Ju Shardlow

Strathclyde green, 3pm. “Shapps?” Why yes,
“Pickles?” May have one, thank you.
Turning to the side: “Hunt”
Another pipes up “Oh gosh, forgot the Cameron-
Oh Maude, that’s such a Greive”
Another hour passes over gentle natter.
They get a bit Osbourne
so they play croquet.

“Willets rain later?”
“Expecting a Spellman, it’s looking a bit Grayling over there.”

A cry: “Fox!”
And they whip out the pistols from under the tartan.
“Gove mine! Hague it!”
Then later - Herbert should have Letwin. There’s no Mcloughlin lost there.

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