Princess Anne loves genetic crops,
she’s inbred-proof it really works,
there’s other experiments in mutation
displaying success beyond expectation:
Trump and Putin re-mixed the truth,
and now the States is democratic proof
that all it takes is a misogynist’s grab
to be Putin’s pussy; sat there on his lap.
This isle, set adrift by Farage’s caper,
limp as cold chips wrapped in newspaper,
is turning into another Gulliver’s find,
becoming a nation of the very small kind.
As toxic shocks of religion have shown
mix god with politics and here Hell will grow,
add in racism, bestow false hopes,
and the future becomes a right royal joke.
Henry the Hoover
was never ‘for’ Brexit,
he liked to keep it simple,
being a hard-working Brit,
Unlike Dick the Dyson,
with his uber-brand name,
who was blowing off Europe,
because it sucks to Remain.
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.
