In the land where the sun rarely shines,
A steely-faced knight gives stern lines.
Sir Keir of Starmer, born without cheer,
His lectures make holidays disappear.
“Be serious!” he cries, as we sit and we yawn,
His jokes are as lively as a damp, misty dawn.
But fear not, dear Britons, satire’s not dead,
For this government’s gaffes keep the humour well-fed.
The Tories before were a fine running joke,
From Liz Truss’s delusions to Boris’s cloak.
But Labour’s new ministers, oh what a treat!
They puff up with pride and trip over their feet.
Caught in a muddle with cash and a pass,
Sir Keir plays the part of the man with no sass.
“The doors are now open!” he proudly declares,
But only, it seems, if your wallet’s prepared.
The garden’s reclaimed, from parties and cheer,
Though Alli’s own shindig was just held right here.
Larry the Cat now serves us with pride,
While Starmer attempts to keep cronies outside.
His problem, you see, is his righteous air,
A halo that slips as the truth grows bare.
Critics arise, but Keir cannot see,
Why the nation is laughing at his morality.
Reporters with questions, how dare they inquire?
“This cronyism’s rubbish!” he snorts, full of ire.
For in his pure heart, how could he be wrong?
It’s the Tories to blame, we’ve heard all along.
But now, as the British public observes,
This knight of no humour is testing our nerves.
With pomp and with priss, his speeches unfold,
But his charm, I’m afraid, is already old.
So here’s to the future, as bright as it seems,
With Sir Keir’s dull lectures and lofty dreams.
The public may tire, but satirists cheer,
For in this new era, the joke’s crystal clear.
Verbal Alchemy 