Be it not me from the sewers birthed
where the chaste masses smell the stench
unspoken they abide the nudge and the wink
of disgraced and shameless miscreants shadow boxing
in veiled mirth they indulge gain less buffoons in body politic  
eschewing bigotry prejudice ignorance and contrived devices
weaving camouflages' made in fools' delusional fabrics
weeping sores and diseased laden seeping gums
our unwashed Calvary are waging war
gutter revolutionaries of bacon lane
plying hogwash to flying pigs
rulers of bulls compost
bed fellows of their mothers
writing Cuban English in scribble
speaking English in Russian retrograde
hunting the Romanovs in Brick Lane and Petticoat Market
petite tools with tools petite hiding under mothers skirts with frenchies
Hail our witless gangs of cancellers who say they do heads in
they've been at it quite for score and decade
while we moon at village idiots and dim blockheads
who are looking for the man on the moon
apparently he's broken hearted and in pain
so says
those watching the big round moon