When Theresa May met Donald Trump,
he tried to hold her hand.
She kicked him, diplomatically
(which he didn’t understand).
He’d combed his hair, but her stony heart
was a wall he couldn’t scale.
He swigged his glass of Novichok
like any alpha male.
“This Champagne’s gotta…lotta fizz…”
he told her, eyes aflame.
“From Putin, Mr President
– so he’ll get all the blame…”