MARTIN ROWSON, in referring to Boris Johnson as a “Cloying Classical cum-stain of Cataline Calamity,” is both an excellent judge of character and in possession of an admirable aptitude for acerbic alliteration.

Perhaps better known for his brilliantly derisive cartoons, in Pastrami Faced Racist — a collection of poetry about the farcical realities of modern Britain — he casts his satirical gaze over contemporary political and literary life, swapping brush for pen and witty and absurdist verse.

The book’s title, drawn from his poem of the same name, references those embittered gentlemen of a certain age, race, class and sexuality who crop up all too frequently on Question Time to offer their tedious opinions on the pressing issues of the day. “Pastrami faced racist/Basted in baseless/Hatred for faceless/Natives of nameless/Faraway places.”

It goes without saying that this is a political collection, with Rowson’s anger at the Tories ringing through verses describing their rank hypocrisy, wilful deception and unashamed greed. “Next, writhing past like a disease,/And squeaking ‘Death to Expertise!’/And looking like a startled quail /Is GOVEY, who is called BETRAYAL.”

Rowson’s fury as he takes to task those who have done so much to destroy the fabric of society over the past decade is undoubtedly authentic.

Martin Rowson

Nevertheless, those on the receiving end of his “metrical rants” should be honoured to be subject to such incisive lyrical attention even when, in the case of the odious Rod Liddle, Rowson wants to settle a score — Liddle promised Rowson a bottle of wine in 2002 in return for a cartoon but, having obliged, he's still waiting for his poisoned chalice.

More widely, Rowson's attention turns to the “state of the nation” in the poem Deep England which describes a country yearned for and nearly destroyed by rabid ideologues on the right. “I dived down into Deep England/So far down I got to Hell,/And glanced over my shoulder:/And saw nothing left to sell.”

Clearly fond of skewering the obnoxious public schoolboys who litter public life, the book doesn’t just pour exquisite scorn on the Cabinet or the gutter press. The hubris of authors and the inanities of popular philosophers and the pretensions of literary festivals all feature and nor do Stephen Fry, Martin Jarvis and, for some reason, Newport in Gwent get away without some gentle sass.

His poetical forebears are invoked in an irreverent but clearly affectionate way, with Shelley, Browning and Shakespeare echoing throughout his levelling verse. “Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day? Don’t bother! Can’t you see it’s pissing it down?”

Refreshingly, Rowson doesn’t take himself too seriously — “Another Party, another Launch, Another author’s expanding paunch,” but this mustn’t be confused with an absence of skill. His intentionally laboured rhymes belie this, while his subversion of the canon requires an extensive knowledge of its greats.

Most importantly, his is an unrepentant poetry of the profane. He doesn’t muse on his subjects from the meadows of Arcadia, he glowers at them from across the swamps of reality.

Pastrami Faced Racist is published by Smokestack Books, price £8.99.