You’ll be like a Roman Consul,
Like a strutting, lairy gunsel,
Fixed with aria-belting tonsils,
With lead put in your pencil,
A headwind in your mainsail,
Like a pirate on his fo’c’sle,
Feel like vassals storming castles,
You’ll be pounding like a pestle,
It’ll tie knots in your pretzel,
Your engine’s gonna whistle,
Your dorsal is colossal,
You’ll be bedecked in tinsel,
Music surges, like in Purcell,
Just feel your bulging muscles
As you bristle like a schnitzel,
Plus you’ll drive like Nigel Mansell!
Simply cancelling an Incel feels that good!
Are You Ready For Brexit?
The combine throbs and idles at the crossroads
The reapers climb down going house to house
From shop to pub they pick their ways through litter
Til a trod on empty tinny makes one jump
Giggling embarrassed on the eerie pavement
Bends to pick up his still jangling scythe
The leaves spurn sunlight on the crumbling wall
Beyond the harvest, towards the manor house
Before which, on the lawn, the posh boys hunker
Around the crate, to lure their hellhound out
They coo and pet and stroke the slavering monster
With itchy stumps where once their hands had been.