Potatoes

#CumGate

Dumb-innit Combing will gig
the Rose-garden so to dig
himself further in horse-shit
Combing credulity. Dumb, innit?

Dummy Nick Come-ons will play
his own fiddle. A rose in May,
A Covid day to jerk a tear
 but he's not yet here!

Half an hour we must wait
for this guru, Demonic, to relate
the latest origami of his lies -
wrappings of his porky pies.

Bald head bowed he speaks
a long eye of a story, like the Greeks,
soberly told, but overlong
and growing thin, begins to pong.

By Barnard Castle  we might cough
the need to shake the poltroon off,
again he protests overmuch:
I hear an engine slipping clutch.

He went for a drive to a beauty spot
on that very weekend all should not.
He was just seeing 'if I could drive' -
and then a walk, with son and wife.

The sainted coot finally faltering,
Kuensberg helps his paltering,
open the wound and cleanse the gob;
that is the dentistry of her job.

But others pin him to the wall;
he doesn't get it, not at all.
He's weighed himself and found a saint,
a martyr too. Oh no, you ain't.

A narcissist, a special slice -
he blames it on his wife's advice:
'Let's test your vision, strength,
with an excursion, at some length.'

And do we really think it fits
none of three needed shits
or several number ones
in petrol Johns

From London to Durham
From Durham to London?
It's crazy but its true:
best that I can do, best that I can do...