The Master of Downing Street

O Yea! O Yea! Rings London Town Crier
The Master of Downing Street’s pants are on fire!
The flames are enormous, white hot intense
Root members are hurting, back-benches incensed
The smotherers are smothering smoke plumes far and wide
These were thought to be pants that were made of raw hide
O Yea! O Yea! Rings London Town Crier
The Master of Downing Street’s pants are on fire!
Don’t visit the sick, don’t comfort the dying
Don’t give into your longing to be with those crying
Don’t receive cancer treatment, don’t have a by-pass
Keep everything crossed that your body will last
Proclamation!  Proclamation!  Number 10 led
The Master has spoken, The Master has said ……
“Any gathering, any groups will be levied a fine
Excepting our meetings serving cheeses and wine
Donate to good causes, here is my hat
All monies received to gold lamé my flat”
O Yea! O Yea! Rings London Town Crier
The Master of Downing Street’s pants are on fire!
His defence was defenceless:
 “No parties, he said, 
No donations, no bills paid in my stead
No giving, no taking
No gifts under the bed  
No winking, no shrinking
No blood rush to the head
No this, no that, no nothing at all …………………”
So, his breeches imploded igniting an almighty ball
O Yea! O Yea! Rings London Town Crier
The Master of Downing Street’s pants are on fire!
The rumours are flowing like the Thames thick and fast - 
How long can the Master of Downing Street last?
Hear Ye! All Ye! who back him if they must
The myth of the man Boris Johnson is bust
One thing’s for certain, on this rely ….
The Master of Downing Street’s pants do not lie
O Yea! O yea! Rings London Town Crier
The Master of Downing Street’s pants are on fire!