The PM stood on the burning deck
whence all but he had fled
financial crisis round his neck
and nothing in his head
The country was in quite a mess
his pals had all resigned
a tangled web of naughtiness
had started to unwind
His empire lay in disarray
the party lacked support
and all his friends said ‘We're okay
we'll let you hold the fort'
Then off they crept to hide away
until the heat died down
they would return another day
to stalk the masters crown
So Gordon sat and scratched his head
and heaved a little sigh
then in the end he went to bed
and had a damn good cry
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem