TIME TO GO   Paul Clarke  2020

It’s time to go, to stop the tantrums and the lies. 
Too long you’ve trumpeted your bleatings to the skies
with your usual sound and fury (no change there) and so
let’s get this done and make the break more civilized. 
A thousandfold I’ve heard you recount your complaints. 
Seems our attempts to build consensus w’all in vain. 
Stubborn losers taint whatever they come up against; 
not even bleach removes the stains.
 
It’s time to go, though you won’t acknowledge that you’re beaten,
when it’s YOU who keeps accusing ME of cheating.
Crying foul won’t change a tittle:  you’ll still only
quit the field of battle    in full retweet. 
No, it’s your throwaway misogyny that stabs
me deepest.  Let me tell you, friendly neighbourhood fabulist,
that this ’ere pussycat’s not up for grabs
and I, for one, won’t mourn your absence

when you go.  However was such trumpery called smart? 
Jeez, I suppose I should have sensed it from the start
that boorish overstaying your welcome, like a fart. 
It’s time to go, to gimme the chance to ventilate the rooms,
to change the locks, to get my life back, thanks, while you
make-believe that YOU still run the show. 

It’s time to go, it’s time to face the cruel morning,
with its wake-up-and-smell-the coffee final warning. 
This skiv-fefe-vy’s* in the kitchen making toast
and setting off the smoke-alarm:  well, is it dawning
that it’s the toast, amigo, I’m sure you’ll be tomorrow?
It’s the toast – Amen! – I’ll propose, with little sorrow,
to the news that’s not as fake as the last four years’
worth, since we bid you bonjour?  Now

it’s time to forgo those trumped-up charges in the courts,
demanding more than your fair share from this divorce,
by the rules of Eeny, misdemeanour, Miny, Mo. 
Quoth the ravin’ mad pretender:  “Evermore”. 
Scant, faded hopes you’d be departing in good grace
once some ordinary Joe was in your place. 
I get that failure’s not a flavour to your taste,
but don’t forget to take both your faces

when you go.  I need proper closure, I need rest
from one so overweening, crude and self-obsessed. 
If it’s all for show, just change your diapers and get dressed: 
it’s time to go.  For all your narrow, racist, thin-skinned vanity,
Reality TV won’t trump reality –
that’s why you’ve had the old heave-ho –

it’s time to go.  The party’s over, the music’s stopped,
the guests long gone, the booze run out, the balloons all popped.
So bad, so bad, the shock that yesterday the host
had been rejected.  Hasn’t yet the penny dropped
if I stir the cocoa**-mugs so loud the spoons get bent? 
Still can’t decide if you’re obtuse or merely dense. 
To your question “Have I won the day?”, the answer,
Mr FORMER President, this time, is “No”. 

Note: this isn't a parody, in that it has an [I hope] original tune
* a US friend reports that "skivvies" mean men's underwear, rather than lowly kitchen maid, though I think that applies only in the plural, where this is singular. "While this drudge…" might replace that line
** same person pointed out that Americans serve coffee to end a party. That actually wasn't the point, but maybe Americans don't habitually take cocoa before bed. It's supposed to be a blatant hint to a "sticky" guest. Is hot chocolate a more 'American' nightcap? Anyway, Mudcat is a bit more internationalist than that, so I leave it as it is, since it's hardly worth striving for an alternative.