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The Destruction of (da) Westminstercrib

by Danny “Don Juan” Henrey

The Balliolite came down like the stoat on the fold,
And his tresses were gleaming in yellow and gold;
And the host of his lies bobbed like turds in the bowl,
Fore flushed away nightly as flotsam most foul.

 Like a cascade of champers uncorked on the Broad,
Boris’s foamy fictions about the flock poured:
With the dregs in the gutter, when emptied the flask,
The fold on the morrow in ignorance basked.

 The truckload of villains careered through the land,
Startling the tegs witless with yarns underhand;
And the eyes of the bleaters waxed sated but sure,
And their hearts beat with folly, and anger obscure.

 And Westminster’s casements are cracked and besmirched,
And high in the rafters, dissembling imps perched;
And low in the chamber, the rabble it roared,
As reason and judgment were put to the sword.

 And the fields of Slough Comp resounded with mirth –
With their playground scuffles, the land they had cursed:
And all sluices and channels with ordure full chok’d,
Till under the burden, the plumbing it broke.

 Neither Rigor or Mortis may mop up the mess,
Which in spring’s brittle rays in rank piles coalesce:
And from the roiling east, on Eurus’ chill thrusts,
Endless laughter unfurls in pitiless gusts.