The Imminent Demise of Mr Anthony Blair

Tony has been injured, he’s politically concussed,
The clamour for his resignation’s getting more robust.
It’s clear that he’s regarded with a measure of mistrust,
And the Labour Party’s hoping he’ll spontaneously combust,
He’s won a third election but his leadership is bust,
He’s still holed up in Downing Street though tightly bound and trussed.
The iron man of politics is showing signs of rust.
He still maintains the war he rained down on Iraq was just,
Defending his decision for a military thrust,
Yet still he has this act of being puzzled and nonplussed,
When people ask if it was a humanitarian must.
This oft-repeated question has served constantly to frust-
-Rate the Labour leader as he tries to readjust,
For the country has been covered in this fine volcanic dust,
As many people view him with revulsion and disgust.
The mask has slipped forever and poor Tony has been sussed -
Enthusiasm for the war was bordering on lust,
And now he’s nearly destitute, without a moral crust.
The sands of time are swirling in a great cyclonic gust,
And the name of his successor is now openly discussed.