PMQ

They all wore grey carbon copy suits
with their own unique choice of tie,
propped up on shiny green leather
they took it in turns to shout.

It was Prime Ministers Question’s
and the grey Scot addressed the room,
a dull rumble that sent some to sleep,
pounding the desk, he made his point.

A whoopee cushion face rose in riposte
shouting insults across the room,
a good solid mocking written by the Mail
and on cue, the rabble jeered and groaned.

They shrieked and cackled,
and they slapped their knees
and each other’s sweaty backs
as their hard mates fought it out.

The Speaker was not amused.
He raised his voice over the braying.
“Keep it down you animals,” he bellowed
“This is why the public want us dead!”

There was a silence in the room,
brief but sobering. The Speaker cleared
his throat. Just then, somebody farted
or perhaps David Cameron spoke.

They all fell about laughing then,
sloshing each other’s gin about;
their red nostrils whinnied and wept
at the rich smell of booze and farts.