The Mother of Parliaments emits a low groan - her confidence shot - as our distrust grows We smell the foul essence worn by the rich - it's the stench of the moneyed on the front bench The PM frowns as her voice thins and strains - repeating her mantras - again and again The deceits are disclosed in emotional stories of neglect and fear under the Tories those perfidious
It’s too easy to hate, to say with screams, to find alt-solutions in final extremes, your volume racked up In your echo chamber, Knowing your hatred Reverbs beyond there; Too may such rooms, with men pushing in these are the places where the end begins.
Who is Nick Timothy? Do you give a toss? He’s the quiet one, St Theresa’s soft voice. Almost Deputy PM, with no vote or mandate, he’ll re-draw Conservatism, tracing over the Left; aided by Fiona, the Queen of Press Passes, but Nick wears the boots, ‘cos he likes to kick arses.