Lord of Lies, Father of Flies, works at dunny
Canarywharf, works to keep
attocerebral sheeple, lairy lambs who wear
wolves, falseclass mooncalves on the way to The Chop.
mooncalves steered nowhere selfless, same
personal darkness where shepherded masses always lead.
sheeple swineherded by churnalistic chyrons,
clarion dogwhistles, catkicking Sirens.
upclose yr Island Dwarf Sirens are silicone chickens
w/ chlorinated ****, populipstick on neolib pigs.
wonder what Miss New Wotnot did w/ her new wotnots, notwhat became of Overton widows, Faith, Hope & Charity.
here on Snickersnee Island, the arrows that fly by night dark
as money are the swords, decapitwatting, which
readers - Scumbuyers my Lord, Scumbuyers - '**** yon
nesiote peuplade of Arkadders & Glandricks. & hon-
(w/ decapitraits) have their Weltanshoed-in
by all lamestream lucrepriest lugenpress UK.
tarders trained at finest spirearchies of teratogeny
to titrate propaganda such that Scumbuyer (my Lord)
in their fractally catkicking swillions swallow
argumenta ad crumenum. Whilst for broadsheet
the wine o' clock news is artfully autoskewed
into expedient misreadient of Ideologreed's ideologredients.
But all Suntards
are caitiff lions on swill. & tho' it might be
proletjorative denouncing semiskilled turnspit
as hyenapanzees, who covet shortlived Judas perks
a Camp Kapo might weirdflex, such soulshorting
are owed stiff eyeope' of English truthserum,
veritas tea. My spout is mightier than the sword! O ye
shaming us Mudsills are horrorsoccer suckers
of squaddies' bodies' botties' colluvies.
ed by sprot, the **** of mationalisn,
upon the Belgrano they still bestow a belligerent bel guardo.
I've Gotchadammerung! Once you were l/ stressful
stepsons I contemned but could not censure, but now,
I see there is no keeping you onside.
You are not the tacit vassals of subtle ******,
but Suntards benighted,
dim as a dimbo's dimple in a dim light.
From fruntal brutile futal bowing bove lobes
to yr Suntard
cerebellum, 'tis all massomatic machiavellum
to lumpencommentariat, who script psittacosmic
psyches, themselves onscript (joun. equiv.
of lobbyfodder). Punditocratic quockerwodgers
quote verbatim for quotawonga
vaunted vermin in ermine/ khaki/ tweeds/ pinstripe.
Some professional Suntard-
ers even don Kippot, now Suntard synagogues
of Stockholm syndrome defame in the name
of socialcleansing at home, ethnic abroad. Suntard-
isation is mightier than the Lord! Death
to the fascistinsect, in fact, the preying noncompis
mantis of the Suntard
sheeple, whose dupers delight in Suntard
seinsvergessenheit, but you won't readallaboutit
in the Suntard Times.
Nor of dem jibberly jukes in gilets jaunes,
whom us Anglais should be jel & emulous of, but
istan is too ******* hornswaggled by The Stick
of ragstoriches exceptions to The Rule, too
igrade to evade the headsoftening powerpincers of pomp
& pageantry & Brexcetera Brexcetera. Or maybe
are just plain 'tards for the Indiangiver bingo.
Perfidiousalbion on speed? Pah, Borisbritain's
on spice...& Suntard
skimpressions scantamount to a creed.
O vox populi comix vex me! Our Utopia of Butskellism's gone
crazy l/ a Foxtard!
So don't get Suntarded by the Sun, be luxtarded
by a deep **** on a lost road, struck dumb by heatstroke,
as you squint at our blinding, illuminating star.