A million people today/
Are marching to tell Mrs May/
Her Brexit deal’s dead/
And maybe instead/
The people should have a new say.///
A million people today/
Are marching to tell Mrs May/
Her Brexit deal’s dead/
And maybe instead/
The people should have a new say.///
Prosaic Theresa gets terse/
She sees things can only get worse/
Perhaps, Mrs May,/
World Poetry Day/
Means now is the time to re-verse.///
A pensioner scratching his head/
About who had tidied his shed,/
By using his nous,/
Discovered a mouse/
That didn’t like mess near its bed.///
Some 56 ewes went to term,/
Australian farmers confirm,/
Each bearing a lamb,/
From one long-dead ram,/
By means of some very old sperm.///
Dmitry was ever so able:/
He dreamed up, or so goes the fable,/
A way, by formatinum,/
Lead, zinc, carbon, platinum/
Et al might appear in a table.///
I’m sorry my speech is so rude,/
It’s not me but rather my food,/
Our ancestors’ diet/
Accounting for why it/
Is frequently fucking well crude.///
MPs gave their backing today/
To seeking a Brexit delay:/
As this month’s too soon,/
They’ll try end of June,/
(Before which will come end of May).///
A fox who thought chickens were weak/
Discovered the harm they can wreak/
For once in their pen/
He found that the hen/
Is made with a very sharp beak.///
Things are moving pretty fast these days… by the time I came to post this afternoon’s tweet it had been overtaken by tonight’s. Both follow:
The PM went over to France/
And got some new words to enhance/
The deal she’d deliver/
But most will still give her/
A snowball in hell’s kind of chance.
* **
Theresa might feel on reflection/
Another decisive rejection/
In this Commons vote/
Means time to take note/
By calling a general election.///
A Florida spa parlour owner/
And recent Republican donor/
Sells clients a hump/
Or access to Trump,/
Whichever will give them a boner.///