Last year’s beauty queen,
Chelsea, her name,
placed, atop the crown –
Ranieri’s tinkered game:

Hazard, a problem,
sunk Spur’s, enraged,
a trip-up, and gouge;
The Bridge, cruel-staged:

To lift the Premiership,
whilst drunk at Vardey’s,
the ultimate result –
for poorer-paid parties.

Tommy Robinson,
what a ‘pure’ knob:
Racism fisted-him;
a nice hard cock.

ENL suffered,
Pegida’s scream,
his last-vote’s-breath:
A shallow-beached dream.

I sat with a gay man,
And argued politic,
But his defense,
was pure cock-lick.

There is little hope,
For any one vote,
If none of us manage,
To embrace last-hopes.

My decision is minimal,
With where I live,
But my vote is the one thing,
I can ever re-give.

My grandfather a ‘conchie’,
But I would not, too;
Instead an infantryman,
Whose headstone was due.