Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Jul 2019
Council coin counter padlocks the  door,
**** here no more they pronounce.

The lady Mayoress of 1952’s dreams are dead,
How she simpered,
Cutting the municipal ribbon,
Beckoning flys to open for her creation.

Now,
Coffeers in the red,
Fred from the chrome door plated department of the WC’s, bolts the whole fancy and flys zip back up.

Brexit ******* means no exit from our miserly mendacity in the face of civic decline.

“You can **** in your own home”, the local Wig proclaims,
Fiscal pressure means a motion that stops your motions mate.

The council bids your poohs adieu and asks you to refrain from complaint.
Written by
Stephen Moore  M
(M)   
440
 
Please log in to view and add comments on poems