The Ballad of Rishi Sunak

In a break from my usual programming and in honour of National Poetry Day, here’s an epic poem about the Prime Minister, written in the style of Beowulf.

If you missed what is being satirised here, this post will fill you in.

---

Friends, gather round,
for the tale I have to tell,
of the hero long awaited,
whose victories were fated.
The one now celebrated
by our people liberated.
You know of whom I speak.

Mighty of hand and stout of heart,
Wise and kind and relatable.
Kind of relatable.
Some say that’s debateable,
But still, he was one of us,
A man of the people, we know,
For we have seen him in his sliders.

Acquainted with poverty he was,
For many a time he had seen,
the huddled masses of Darlington,
the weeping paupers of Hull.
He pitied them. He felt for them.
They had touched his heart,
through the window of his limo.

Removing his tie then,
undoing the top button,
He knew he would fight for them.
He would be their champion,
Dressed in The Mail and shining in The Sun,
Before the dazzled Spectators,
Like a silver Express train to glory.

Many were the foes,
But he was undaunted.
He took the scorn of the Trussites,
The hate from the tribe of Boris,
He poured it like diesel into his SUV.
It revved his engine like a metaphor.
Think of Thatcher, and hear him roar.

Now see him stride into the field of battle,
As he draws his mighty blade.
They rush at him and fall as one,
proposals, targets, plans.
His sword flashes in all directions,
tearing white papers to ribbons,
deleting the online pdfs.

Gone were the meat taxes.
Fallen were the heat pumps,
high speed rail, electric cars.
They would trouble us no more.
Net Zero quaked before his advance.
It fell to its knees and begged,
And with a mighty blow was slain.

Now one final foe remained.
It fell back to its defenses, retreating
Past the twenty mile-per-hour signs,
Through the low emissions zone,
To the heart of the low traffic neighbourhood,
Deep in Fifteen Minute City.
And there it waited.

Our hero drew breath.
This was to be his greatest challenge.
He thought of the children.
He thought of the poor.
He thought of the economic growth,
The long-term decisions for a brighter future,
And quietly, he approached.

Silently, he came upon the proposal,
and dark were its intentions.
Not so much a proposal, more an idea
a rumour of an idea, cloaked in unlikelihood.
But Sunak saw it for what it was.
He knew the evil it planned
To impose upon us all.

Yes, children: it was Seven Bins Diktat,
The dreaded, the loathed.
Oh the toil! The futility!
Wouldn’t someone think of the busy families,
Just trying to go about their lives?
Sunak did. Sunak understood,
And bold was his approach.  

“Not on my watch!” he cried,
“I’ve got this. I’m on it!”
And drawing his sword he plunged
Into the vortex of bureaucracy.
Great was the violence.
Mighty was the battle,
For Seven Bins was no small foe.

For hours he fought the writhing
Many-headed hydra of waste policy.
Never a policy, said the civil servants.
A mooted option, not really an idea,
Yet Sunak would prove them wrong,
And deliver the head of Seven Bins
To parliament on a silver plate.

Great was the rejoicing,
And long was the honours list,
Upon our hero’s return.
Until the crowds were hushed by the miracle:
For though the pile of dead was high,
No blood had touched his suit.
Dishevelled he was not, and perfect was his hair.

Who else will hear the call of history?
Who else will write our destiny?
And so my friends, my tale concludes,
and you know what to do:
Vote for him, vote for him,
He’s the man with the plan and he’s got your back,
Rishi Seven Bins Sunak.