Seventy seven and unlucky for some,
here sired no seventh son of seventh son,
when one is caught out and he’s in at ten.
Donating thanks and promises to steal,
with sleight of hand, his deal or no deal
of a stacked deck contain nothing much real;
this Mr Kipper. But we’ll all buy on trust,
walk our roads of dust, riding rails of rust
pitched at silly mid on far futures thrust.
Intangible noises off, play the green,
sounding daunted at such great wisdom seen,
witless, wondering quite what has been done
in freedom’s name or what’s to come.
Pivot history’s slide into
unite; sod one, sod all and sod the rest
shall be our chanted mantra. Acronyms
acrimonious, loud spittle-spat hymns,
praise him, this giant, with empty grin
save us, deliver us from self-doubting scum
and, with a shout, come new Jerusalem.
Fly, Angel fly: comes the hour, comes your man,
shit over this land where fuck as fuck can,
carouse foul fingers through his thick fair locks,
detonate blonde bombshell in awe and shock.
Glorious the rape of you stones and blocks.