The asterisk PM

There once was a PM named Lizzie
Whose policies made people dizzy
She fucked up the pound
And got people down
Then quit in a bit of a tizzy


Them’s the breaks

A failed PM tories call Boris
Is featured in Roget’s Thesaurus
Five entries has he
Dick, asshole, cock, twat, and clitoris


32 shades of green

Kilkenny’s green, and so’s Kildare
Roscommon, Galway, Laois and Clare
Limerick’s as green as Irish stew
They’re green in Tipperary too
It’s green in Carlow and Westmeath
In Wicklow, Offaly and Meath
They’re green in Cork and Dublin town
But not up north in County Down
The west is green, and so’s the south
The east is green way up to Louth
Fermanagh is a green-free zone
As well as Armagh and Tyrone
There’s none more green than Kerry fair
But not so in the Derry air
In Antrim, giants walk the sea
While Leitrim’s as green as can be
Six Ulster counties are not green
Why was the UK so damn mean?
It’s weird that Cavan, Monaghan
And Donegal weren’t in their plan
The Fords of Water, Wex and Long
Still think the British got it wrong
The greens of Sligo and Mayo
Want Brits to give back what they owe
Until six counties change their hue
It won’t be green in 32


It’s good to be the queen

There once was a monarch named Betty
Who liked sex with men who were petty
If they had small minds
And sturdy behinds
They’d frivolously get all sweaty



England suffers from football fate
They forgot to close the Southgate
Rashford, Sancho and young Saka
At penalties, they were caca
But here across the Irish Sea
No tears were shed for those missed three
We celebrate – #ItsGoingRome
Meanwhile our team never left home


At first his throat was a bit sore-us

There once was a PM named Boris
Who wanted his borders less pourous
But then he got sick
From some random chick
Because he had licked her clitoris


The long goodbye

No longer Europe’s friend
You thought it best to end
So long
We wanted you to stay
But you fled anyway
You will not see us grieve
When all you tories leave
Auf Wiedersehen
Don’t let the door hit ya
Where the good Lord split ya


May would not be soon

May is out in June
Who’s the next buffoon?
Will this Tory goon
Sing the same old tune?


Yes we are

There is no wall and
UK is still in EU
Must be April Fools


A rake of shit

The Jizztrumpet rakes up the leaves
His fucking face gives me dry heaves
With Putin, Foster, Pence and May
I wish they all would blow away


HB Mr. B

Today could be chucked in a bin
A grounded plane with damaged skin
Another plane but had to wait
I missed the bus ’cause we were late
Then had to stand out in the cold
All the delays had gotten old
And traffic as we got to Naas
We crawled along at a snail’s pace
Then at long last, I made it home
And quickly bought Glory to Rome
‘Cause Tony said to this weekend
And I obey my foul-mouthed friend


‪#‎Brexit‬? how ’bout ‪#‎FuxItUp‬!

EU is a bloody mess
Like a Donald Trump U.S.
Merry England wants to leave
Chaos is all they achieve
Scotland voted to remain
And Gibraltar next to Spain
Ulster said it wants to stay
Now they may unite some day
UK’s money loses ground
Peso’s worth more than the pound
Misinformed and racist Brits
Put their county in the shits
Now the home of Mr. Bean
Can’t be saved by king or queen


Brave but not free

Scotland might be brave
But it isn’t free
They’ll go to the grave
With a dream to be


You’ll never whack alone

There once was a man from Liverpool
Who was real handy with his large tool
In his tiny shack
He gave a nice whack
To any lass who wasn’t a fool


Makes me want to gorge

Willie and Kate chose a name
Regal and worthy of fame
The name agrees with most folk
It’s not the butt of a joke
Oh the paths this king will forge!
‘Cause nothing bad rhymes with George
But that’s not true for Georgie
They forgot about orgy!


Didn’t we fight a war to not care?

So, Kate and Willie popped out a boy
Women around the world jump for joy
From Buckingham Palace to Beijing
Such excitement for this future king
But for the moment, he’s just a prince
And all this chatter makes most men wince


We were trippin’

Journey’s End
By J. R. R. Tolkien

In western lands beneath the Sun
The flowers may rise in Spring,
The trees may bud, the waters run,
The merry finches sing.
Or there maybe ’tis cloudless night,
And swaying branches bear
The Elven-stars as jewels white
Amid their branching hair.

Though here at journey’s end I lie
In darkness buried deep,
Beyond all towers strong and high,
Beyond all mountains steep,
Above all shadows rides the Sun
And Stars for ever dwell:
I will not say the Day is done,
Nor bid the Stars farewell.


God shave the king

I don’t really give a fuck
But we’ll soon have a King Chuck
Queen Liz is 87
And on her way to heaven
She’s number one by and large
But, she’s putting Charles in charge
He will travel in her place
And be “King” as a test case
Most Britons love QE2
And don’t want to bid adieu
Yet time catches up to all
While Charles waits for his call


Póg mo thóin sassenach

Easter, 1916
By William Butler Yeats

I have met them at close of day
Coming with vivid faces
From counter or desk among grey
Eighteenth-century houses.
I have passed with a nod of the head
Or polite meaningless words,
Or have lingered awhile and said
Polite meaningless words,
And thought before I had done
Of a mocking tale or a gibe
To please a companion
Around the fire at the club,
Being certain that they and I
But lived where motley is worn:
All changed, changed utterly:
A terrible beauty is born.

That woman’s days were spent
In ignorant good-will,
Her nights in argument
Until her voice grew shrill.
What voice more sweet than hers
When, young and beautiful,
She rode to harriers?
This man had kept a school
And rode our wingèd horse;
This other his helper and friend
Was coming into his force;
He might have won fame in the end,
So sensitive his nature seemed,
So daring and sweet his thought.
This other man I had dreamed
A drunken, vainglorious lout.
He had done most bitter wrong
To some who are near my heart,
Yet I number him in the song;
He, too, has resigned his part
In the casual comedy;
He, too, has been changed in his turn,
Transformed utterly:
A terrible beauty is born.

Hearts with one purpose alone
Through summer and winter seem
Enchanted to a stone
To trouble the living stream.
The horse that comes from the road,
The rider, the birds that range
From cloud to tumbling cloud,
Minute by minute they change;
A shadow of cloud on the stream
Changes minute by minute;
A horse-hoof slides on the brim,
And a horse plashes within it;
The long-legged moor-hens dive,
And hens to moor-cocks call;
Minute by minute they live:
The stone’s in the midst of all.

Too long a sacrifice
Can make a stone of the heart.
O when may it suffice?
That is Heaven’s part, our part
To murmur name upon name,
As a mother names her child
When sleep at last has come
On limbs that had run wild.
What is it but nightfall?
No, no, not night but death;
Was it needless death after all?
For England may keep faith
For all that is done and said.
We know their dream; enough
To know they dreamed and are dead;
And what if excess of love
Bewildered them till they died?
I write it out in a verse—
MacDonagh and MacBride
And Connolly and Pearse
Now and in time to be,
Wherever green is worn,
Are changed, changed utterly:
A terrible beauty is born.

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