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.
