From French drôle (“comical, odd, funny”), from drôle (“buffoon”) from Middle French drolle (“a merry fellow, pleasant rascal”) from Old French drolle (“one who lives luxuriously”), from Middle Dutch drol (“fat little man, goblin”) from Old Norse troll (“giant, troll”) (compare Middle High German trolle (“clown”)), from Proto-Germanic *truzlą (“creature which walks clumsily”), from *truzlaną (“to walk with short steps”). Doublet of troll.
English history is full of darkness and actions to be mindful of, the English can be nasty when they dislike something.
we can be darker in our humour if the trolls in charge wish,
we can find humour in the darkness of our poverty in the hands of our captors,
so poor on the world stage they stance, making fools of us all,
“buffoon” is too polite for this behaviour, they shame us as our abusers.
they say we put them there, did you?
did you vote what sits as prime minister tool?
doubtful, only an obviously oblivious fool wouldn’t question this decision, look at the world, NOT your sodding newspaper!
be polite, be English plus, maybe minus some bad stuff of course.
take the nationalism and shove it in the faces of fascists, as the unity of a people who are awakening from capitalists,
see the people who you thought you could trust, the people you keep putting in charge,
come from criminal politicians who stole all our stuff.
from our children’s milk, to our national treasures,
like water and land, and our national health carers.
they lie and they steal our children’s meal.
so perfect their plan to break us all apart,
divide and rule some say, it worked on the enemy?
destined to dust, that’s where they wish for, all toast?
a world burnt to a crisp, leaving only the wisps,
these people in charge need muzzling,
they need monitoring by professionals!
they’re clearly deranged, cuckooed, pickled and strange,
if it just was the strange, pickled or deranged, we’d be fine.
but the cuckooed sound far too rude to resign.
not true, the cuckooed may be cocksure, who knows,
be sure that we can trust this mouth hacked manure?
is it true, or is it gloss,
is there substance to this?
do we know it instinctively?
where have our instincts taken us?
to sun lit upstreams of empire infinity!
come see the monarch, so splendid, and only costing a few pennies.
the monarchs government, the thugs, the tories.
they can know my ip,
they may drink all my tea,
but the bollocks an Englisher takes, has limits before it breaks.
break the English, we break you, tory masters and old fools,
read your history, we decide on our enemy!
it’s our deluded feeble minds, doped up on what grinds,
their gears bare fears of pain and suffering.
they know suffering, they know the story of the fat old tory,
the one that grew fatter like a pig eating platter.
they eat their own, with their bones all chewed up with splatter,
are they all bad? that’s sad, daily mail’s a tad Nad.
Nad or nad is one that’s gone insane due to the pain,
of being in love with her bad boy, king of the world!
darkness in the heart of the keeper of home,
it reads like the necronomicon,
if you stand in a mirror, chant her name three times and quiver,
her thugs will drag you away to Rwanda!
on the foreign front dumb dumb just runts,
“take my picture, of course, I care about yous.”
“look, I’m an apple, you heard, I’m no old turd.”
if I had some doshy on my little dishy,
I would have a mealy when the cheque clears.
if I had some doshy on my little dishy,
I would save my kinsfolk when the cheque clears.
living on borrowed time, they all await the next chime,
of the bell echoing from ancient time,
they don’t care, it’s about themselves,
there’s only time to party and crime!
please be clear, there’s nothing to fear,
their teeth are only sharp because we let them.
if we need them gone, then woebegone,
it’s long over due, the butt and the shoe,
kick him out, kick them out, old snuff bags and snout.
if we let them win, then we deserve a punching!
see how they crush and abuse, lie and confuse,
leave them be in their pee, all crying to nanny.
in this short spell you may get a smell of burning, it’s not real, it’s just how you feel,
vote them out, vote them out, vote them out, vote them out,
then you can be free to love your families,
be warm in safety, know only peace in yourselves,
care about others despite the vain,
speak out at injustice,
be protectors of all, no matter how small,
share kindness and support to those that have nought.
to end this mad reign of Romans and arcane cocaine,
given lois to the gaulois up in angle land.
remember the history that broke all our stories,
the one that invaded our homes, loves and spaces.
the meaning of English needs to change to one that is true, warts and all,
the bad stuff needs to be taught so we’re no longer bought,
by the capitalists hand, the libertarian’s mad clan.
the fool that thinks the world is vast and infinite,
the one that keeps burrowing into seabeds and old lands.
burning habits down without even a frown,
they kill our children’s children’s children’s children!
we kill our children’s futures when we lay back and exclaim…
“they’re all the same, we know their game.”
so why don’t you stop it, old poppet?
we don’t need their scolds.
they don’t need us for anything, apart from their clothes,
and their water, their food and even they’re ancestor’s oaths.
they want to be despicable, just like the films?
they’d do well as the villains that send heroes to hell!
we vote for them, glorify them, sniff up their pocket for a look in their locket,
for a gram of the good stuff, you know the whitehall puff!
don’t trust them, old son,
they’re after your time,
don’t give them an inch,
don’t give them a mile,
maybe cast them a friendly smile.
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