the moment the thought hit,

that they’d been here before,

and it smells like bullshit.

this suffering cycle,

the constant rebirth

into old terf,

spunk festering old jerk.

liked to dress up like brook’s hitler,

count dracula and some other berks.

comedy as a political weapon,

be careful what you promote,

it imagines a reality

where the twist is the cist

that is used to poke.

take a peek at the code,

it’s a pattern I’m told,

replicatable stupidity

rejoiced by the fold.

break the constant sadness,

rejoice in others happiness,

be wise not to sneeze

without due attention

(..what about your pension..)

it would mean a lot, I plead.

on the ground,

looking up,

I see storm clouds heading down,

we might want to get umbrellas

the size of big fellas,

with arms all the way to their frowns.

I fear for our children’s future,

climate deniers can fuck right off,

I listen to scientists,

peer reviewed,

respected in their fields.

not grinning dick faced gobshites,

the ones on the telly,

the ones with their lips tight,

and their arses all smelly.

imagine voting for someone

cuz you hate the same things,

so lacking in social grace

you allow the death of a child

to be a joke to embrace!

foul odorous sore,

magnificent bore,

simply liars,

bankers whores.

it’s not for the people,

no tory in that pocket,

course not,

they’re dildos up the rich old fucks,

bad word sucks.

anyway, been here before,

and at best it’s a place,

at worst it’s hell.

so Tsamchö wishes for peace,

one that lasts for all,

without exception,

the blissful release,

the beautiful perfections.

© Copyright 2022 InkeyString

the one that gave up