The Labour Party’s done for, Tories laughing up their sleeve,
So Starmer’s off on the government jet to the lovely town of Kyiv.
For hugging Vlod Zelensky is the dying man’s reprieve,
There’s nothing Murdoch’s mates love more than a PM visiting Kyiv.
It warms the hearts of the military men and makes the pinkos grieve,
When the head of the United Kingdom spends a few days touring Kyiv.
There’s no mention of his woes at home and nothing to aggrieve,
As long as he doesn’t mention the Nazi hordes in Kyiv.
He can promise lots of lovely cash before he has to leave,
And chat about Vlod’s offshore accounts (that definitely aren’t in Kyiv).
He can shower them with missiles too lethal to conceive,
And he won’t be asked about Rachel’s sums by the journalists in Kyiv.
As the PM’s so-called colleagues gripe and some even plan a heave,
A man’s not likely to find himself backstabbed in Kyiv.
It’s a bit like a teacher’s half-term break or a sailor on shore leave,
He can laugh and drink and takell on offer in Kyiv.
No pensioners in freezing homes or WASPIs to deceive,
It’s beer and skittles (or vodka and borscht) when the airplane lands in
Kyiv.
We bought the free tuition lie and boy were we naïve,
But the PM doesn’t hear us moan when he’s on Easy Street in Kyiv.
He learned the trick from Boris who from trouble had no reprieve,
But always found blessed comfort in a five-star gaff in Kyiv.
His Covid cares would vanish and his sanity he’d retrieve,
By not chasing skirt in London, but doing it in Kyiv.
For Ukraine’s a Shangri-La for PMs anxious to achieve
A break from all the aggro with his far-right mates in Kyiv.
The rule’s the same in springtime, Halloween or Christmas Eve,
If you haven’t a clue what you’re doing, nobody gives a toss in Kyiv.
