Bring Out Your Dead

 Bring Out Your Dead

 

You might see black clouds massing

in the East

if you ever lifted your head.

 

instead -

 

What a jolly good chap the King is,

in the counting house, by the toll booth

this side of Boothferry Bridge;

 

there’s horror for Andy

can he survive the Winter - he’ll be lucky

if bias from Munchetty

don’t get him first;

 

and Traitors cancel an entire series

due to a devastating four-word firestorm

while influencers swarm

over Stockport’s nursery manager

with the kindest soul;

 

there’s fresh outrage sparked

by sleeping trailblazer,

bombshells Meghan, will nothing faze her

or bring this odious couple

to their knees

rid you all of this turbulent priest;

 

while over there in Pickle Cottage,

divorced celebrities plant beans

but cannot say

how many make five;

 

bless Garraway, oh Garraway

and all who launch her,

crack champagne bottles, splitting his sides

if he gets out of there alive;

 

your viewers aren’t happy,

they never are,

when a minor Premier League icon

is always crashing

in the same car;

 

marveling at the UK stockpiling toilet paper,

alongside 6 other everyday

household items, but cannot say why,

 

and millions on the dole; hand-outs,

foodbanks, posting salvation

taking holidays in the nation’s

sick capital, Merthyr Tydfil,

spawning epidemics of falling ill.

 

You might see black clouds massing,

in the East

if you lifted your head –

 

Instead,

bring out your dead.