The Road to 1688


The popinjays in parliament are fat from lack of effort

as foreign gentlemen who’ve strangled children in a desert,

invited by a German witch, come waltzing with their four-inch

excited camel-prodders oozing heatstruck lust for more minge,

past Bollinger-soaked Bolsheviks whose every judgement mutilates

and sporran-jingling Scottish “nationalists” who dream of superstates

to kitchens where they’ll cook up cocktails. Ricin, Agent Orange,

all rich in spice that can’t be soothed or sated with a lozenge.

The bomb injuries pile up but, so says every ponce,

they warrant just a teddy-clutching, candlelit response.

We mope and sigh and listen to each creaking liberal whore whinge

for open hearts and legs and borders like an unoiled door hinge.

Ignore injustice all you want, left-wing Judas Iscariot,

but war injects a newfound fury in the proletariat.





© Gammon 2020
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1 month ago

Howsabout losing that last little ‘but’? Missed a beat there anyway to recover from such a name – either that or the boat moved 🙂

1 month ago
Reply to  Gammon

Knew you’d say that! Not even a semicolon would do it…iambs it is.

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