Where do you go to?

I have just returned from cycling in France with a few mates. As we strolled along the Promenade des Anglais in Nice we spontaneously burst into song, singing Peter Sarstedt's 'Where do you go to my Lovely'.
While we were away we received the great news that Theresa may had completely misread the electorate and had received her comeuppance for so cravenly calling an election.
 The ballad below, so shamelessly derived from Sarstedt's great song is to celebrate my 3 comrades a velo; Rosie Duffield's victory in Canterbury; the revival of Labour; the re-entry of Young People into politics; and the kicking administered to the Tories' solar plexus.

Where do you go to my Mayfly? (in the style of the song by Peter Sarstedt)

Where do you go to my Mayfly

When you're with Phil, home in bed?

Do thoughts of duplicity surround you?

I'd like to look inside your head.

Your  dad was a C of E vicar

Which gave you an ethical steer?

But your carefully confected,  faux-Christianity

Just serves as a smokescreen, I fear.

Yes it does, Ha! Ha! Ha!

You took yourself off to Oxford

You're remembered by all at St. Hugh's

Some talk of your burning ambition

But more of your leopard-skin shoes.

So where do you go to my lovely

When you're at home in your bed

Are you troubled by thoughts of Grenfell Tower

I'd like to look inside your head

Your friends call you 'boring but competent'

But you're much more dangerous, I think

You'd trash human rights tomorrow

You thought up The Snooper's Charter

without so much as a drink

You style yourself 'New Iron Lady'

yet you lack her hateful, steely charm

You've tried to do Ronnie and Maggie

With ridiculous Trump on your arm

So where do you go to my Mayfly?

When you hide under the bed

Does your staggering hypocrisy surround you

I'd like to look inside your head...

You're obsessed by immigration

Though you you could not keep numbers down

You've started Brexit negotiations

With people as bargaining chips

The JAMs you supposedly side with

are still squealing like so many squeezed  pips

Your loveliness goes on and on; yes it does...

No strategy is too mendacious

No trick is ever too mean

But it's not just yourself you abase

It's all of us that you demean.

Now you called a General Election

You called it just for fun

(for a laugh, ha! ha!ha!)

The greatest miscalculation you could have made

A game of very high stakes and

One you should never have played

So eat up your own Dog's Brexit

You see; they no longer want you

Or fall silently on your sword

Boris says it's the right thing to do

So, where do you go to my Mayfly

When you're alone in your bed

Do you dare to look in the mirror?

Do you see someone already dead?

(na  na-na-na  na  na-na-na  na-na   na na na na)