Fruitcakes
They're all just an old brand of fungus,
Their smell-by date long in the past:
Currant-buns, crazies, and prejudice-mongers,
Big-mouthed and big-headed, big-arsed.
Their feet are rammed right down their gullets,
Their lipsticks as rancid as butter:
Shaggy as old men with badly-cut mullets,
And the natter-jack skills of a nutter.
Their brains are the size of a pippin,
Curdlers who should be in purdah,
Burke and Hare, Cream, Borden and Crippen
Couldn't get away quick with such murder.
They strangle the language like turkeys;
They scream like a tribe of baboons;
They chatter like chimps, or like Pinkys and Perkys;
The duffers, the puffballs, the loons.
They're dreck. They are sexless and feckless.
Pondlife deserves better notice.
In political terms, they are rats, running reckless:
And that's just the ones who are voters.
