Moronic Britonic Rhetoric, Pass me another Gin and Tonic


It’s not long before the red mist clears

The rosie red mist of returning home

Soon turns into a cloud of claustrophobia

A red raw aftermath of unrequited revolution.



What have we become? 

A herd of fleshy, furry gargoyles 

Set in stone by masonic gorgons

Rows of disparate desperate pawns on a concrete chess game chopping board.



We beg for change, 

Bite the hands that feed us, 

Lick their fingers

Choke on their smoke

Slip on their piss

As they swallow our cards, 

Consume our greed 

And steal our sanctuary

In shameless displays of daylight robbery.



We are monsters ricocheting between fast food and pharmaceuticals

As fat and thin and pale and blistered as we are smug and “happy”

Leaking louted laughs and gut rot all over the mean streets

Tricked into believing that none of us will be left on them to die.



Yet die we will

Becoming mere dust 

Just to be trampled upon by suits with bigger boots

And swept up by people better than us

Drills dig and dig into us, the dust

And more and more rubble is piled on top of each bitter building

One British dickish brick after the other.



Bitterness is masked by more sweets. 

Eat yourself cold and naked as nourishment will bleed your pockets dry 

Pinballs and puppetry are at an all time high

And who can look in who’s eye?

There’s universal pain everywhere 

Pretending not to cry.

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