Gordon the Gaffer (or Duffy the Premier Slayer)

Gordon Brown. Great Scot, flaking,
Like burnt oats fettered in a highland breeze.
Man on a mission. Fishing for a fourth great fish,
Hoping to feed five thousand at least.
Awkward, carrying a hunch on his back, pointing to Blair.
The liar with the lugs, whose mug grinned like a half moon horizontal.
He haunts from abroad, aboard a luxury liner.

But Gordon’s up North. But not North enough.
And then in a puff, he threw it all away. Again.
Slain, by a microphone, it cut him to the bone.
Mortified like Herman Munster, he mustered his own Joker grin in half thought spin.
But the pack was dropped on the floor, replaced by the press pack rumble.
He grumbled, but wait, come on, he was stressed.

He had hoped to be like Harry, among the troops.
Agincourt, his centre court, like Murray, he minted it, but then…
Then came a slam, on a polished Jag door. And a growl worse than its bite.
Rochdale, crouched by Pennine range, saw a deranged Premier,
Shoot his foot to stump, with a mighty thump, making hard Labour of it all.

An old Lass, of Northern Brass, with smoky tinted specs,
Respect where it’s due. She spoke of learned places, and flocks,
An intention to exercise, some rite. Gordon handled it fine,
Towed the party line, and Duffy was happy enough, in stoic tone.
Then the Sky fell in. Literally, when the Antipodeans forum fanned the blue,
Whose luck became too good to be true,
And told Duffy, an old guard thorn of the Red rose petal
That she was called a bigot, a banshee wailing over foreign ghosts.

Gordon cried in his hand, tears of stone.
He got on the phone, the airwaves,
His feelings grave, apologies flowing like festival beer,
As he steered away from the wrecked shore, he had before, been so near,
And he went back North, to Duffy’s abode, to meet Rochdale’s sage,
Fuming behind the white door, with its humble frame.
He went in. Words were said, we can not know.
Too heavy for our ears,
Where those fears, addressed to that old dear.
Smear? No. A gaffe, one that slay the Goliath of Kirkcaldy.
Not with rock, brick, or Lancashire stone,
But with a stray Murdoch microphone.