Space Grease
I’m standing in the Tory line
I’m out in outer space
I’m queuing by the entry sign
With principles in place
I’m dedicated, at the crease
The air is full of toxic grease
I’m waiting for the moral maze
I’m in the cosmic soup
I’m in the final Tory phase
I’m soaked in sticky gloop
No matter how I plan the route
I wind up dark and dank with soot
The line snakes on and out of sight
I watch its suited backs
The stabbers live there overnight
And sometimes use an axe
I’m in the dark, I have no sponge
I’m coated in the Tory gunge
God help the rank and Tory file
Who stand out in the void
They’re hosed down with a viscid bile
From every asteroid
Take Boris, and take all his drool
And each sebaceous molecule
Click here for an Independent article on Boris
Click here for a Guardian article on outer space
