Forget our folk
And headline choke,
Sink into
Molasses.
Forget our kin
And those within,
Take apethy
Evening classes.
The Euro news
Becomes a snooze,
The plug’s been pulled,
Air’s been viewed,
Quite frankly
It’s been overdue…
Now.
Sip sovereign-tea.
Crunch biscuitly,
With right and
Proper passes.
As we sink,
Without a think,
Into their molasses.
Pancake day,
‘comes crepe-ary,
For all the lads and lasses.
It’s real, this heat,
From t’ cookery
Of the the ruling classes.
Not sugary or buttery,
Conscriptively,
We’s battered.
Loads o’ lemon,
Not equality,
More sep’rating
Of the eggs-es.
Less brevity,
More assaltery,
Not thinking in,
We're sinking in,
Our little tin
Bath of vim,
Wi’ t’ empire
Contract-ess.
“Can I get one?”
The people ask:
To ponder on
And burnt become…
Some,
Just stand around
And witness.
Tin hats
Made of
Little lions;
Out of the strong,
Came forth,
Sickness.
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