We voted Leave and yet we 'aven't leaved.
Wot in the whirl is our cuntry cumming too?!
Yer afta blink, it ain't to be beleaved.
I'm voting Brexit. That's the thing to do.
Don't tell me no deal wont be, cant be, done;
and threaten me with your fake disasters,
when its our cuntry's freedom to be won;
and we'll become again our own masters.
The cuntry can stand on its own two feet,
never mind the bloody Irish borders!
Wot if the price of juice is not so sweet,
we'll give foreigners their marching orders!
And if the Scots go – hell. Who gives a toss?
Just pull yourself together, plant yer cross.
YOU ARE READING
Potatoes
PoetryHot, Sweet, Saucy, Spicy - always filling/fattening. Donder - vb. To blunder about aimlessly, not knowing what the feck one is at.
