hunker bunker

nonsense grifter,

suited faker,

piss taker.

poor starving,

old freezing,

heads flying,

better hiding.

nonsense hunting,

cut funding,

mass striking,

moral bankrupting.

nonsense invader,

pound weaker,

failed financier,

better hunker,

nonsense bunker.

© Copyright 2022 InkeyString

like hotdog water sold as a health drink

the tories are picking a new leader,

or should I say a select few tories,

the ones with their wrinkled gammon eyes,

spying more places they can hide,

all the wealth of the nation’s pride.

they say it’s like picking the best portaloo at glastonbury,

or your favourite sewage pipe in a shit factory,

who can out transphobe the next anal probe,

the turds that stick to that barrel!

who will offer the best kicking for your #GoNads

the one that smiles the widest and promises the worst advertised.

propagandise the scared mail sun reader,

advertise their compliance to the mogul leader,

who will scatter the most shite on your front page,

while excusing themselves with drunk rage.

ask your forgiveness as they pick flesh from your innards.

just wise up to the diatribes of tory bribes,

the murdoch, the dacre,

the ponce fucking harms-twattery.

the sunak now gives a crap,

about the failing of the previous sunak.

the truss in their selfied gaze,

has just poured tea into the irish hosiery.

the gobby spite of the terminally right,

patel’s got form as always.

a form to drown those that flee from the rounds,

of bullets that fly from wallace’s arms trade.

the braver the man, sue ellen’s woman,

who seems to be confused with what’s hanging.

they’re all obsessed with what the rest’s got between their legs,

porn in the pews,

now in the tractor news,

blowjobs in office with offers from boris.

sexual abuse by the member without whips, the mass debater,

carries on much like before.

they’re all pus-cake filled with coke and hate,

the choice of best cardiac arrest,

in a lone icu gasping for breath.

the tastiest scum floating down the river wee,

the sweatiest bollock sack you’ll ever see,

the mouse droppings in brine carted out as benign,

the bogey berries hanging on their vomit vine.

this ain’t the lot, there’s still plenty of snot,

swimming around in that tory clot.

this is polite, I’d like you to know,

but this anger still grows.

save yourselves, scum tory,

call a general election then most of you go free,

barring certain criminal entities.

© Copyright 2022 InkeyString