Sir Boris was the World’s Worst Knight:
A shabby flabby sorry sight.
What a bore!
He held himself beyond the law.
Bolstered by entitled Chums;
Peasants kept down under thumbs.
Sir B despised the lowly hordes;
Slipped hidden tithings to his Lords;
Poor folk were bent to rich folks’ whim.
In short, the world’s worst knight was him!
The Village Inn was called ‘The Mash’
Each week, they’d host a lively bash
Where jesters entertained the crowd
And people laughed both long and loud.
Boris’s butt was genially poked.
If laughing at power’s your favourite sport,
The Mash was the place to get your Report!
Many a true word is spoken in jest.
But Boris himself was rarely impressed.
“What’s this? No, no!
People are free
“But not at me!
They should be laughing at women in burkas
Not turning the minds of menial workers!”
Sir B’s crew had a cunning plan:
The man in charge should be their man!
No need for soldiers to march into town,
To cause a big scene,
or close the Inns down.
No! It’s better to take a more subtle approach.
Sir Boris would be beyond reproach.
His campaign against the truth begins:
Appointing a new ‘Director of Inns’
A man in charge who can abort,
Ban or bar the Mash Report.
The Inns will still, for sure, be there,
But dull and dusty,
Dry and bare.
No jesters, no comics, no laughing at him.
Just evenings of drudgery, dreary and grim.
The lives of the poor must not be improved;
And all future jesters must be state-approved.