Boris is the immigrant we missed

I have baked beans, enough to feed a street
So left alone, our lambs can safely bleat
I’ve got ten spuds fit enough to bake
But only one debilitated steak

I’ve got some bread flour and some old dried yeast
If we find some jam,oh, what a feast
We may have a street party, watch men  box
As girls with  long blonde hair   each sidle past

But once I use the last of my supplies
Will we get more food  or will we die?
There will be a shortage of white  sacks
As we collect the bodies of the wrecked

A greater Britain cannot now exist
Boris  is the immigrant we missed