Where do you go to my ugly?

(to the tune of ‘Where Do You Go To My Lovely’ by Peter Sarstedt)

You talk like that twat Winston Churchill

And you walk like Co Co the clown

Your clothes are all designer scruffy

And your barnet’s all over your crown, and your face, (yes it is!)

 

You live in the highest of places

With your girlfriend and Larry the cat

Where you plan for world domination

While making buses from tat, and bits of wood, (yes you do!)

 

But where do you go to my ugly?

When you’re alone in your head

Do you have flashbacks of conscience?

Regretting the things that you’ve said, and what you’ve done, (no you don’t!)

 

You slagged scousers off in the media

And ‘bum boy’ is your term for Gay

Black people are just ‘piccaninnies’

And women should be sent on their way, with a pat, (on the bum)

 

Your comments and lies brought you trouble

But you managed to just laugh it off

Your Teflon enamel existence

Comes from being a Bullingdon Toff, with your nose in the trough, (yes it is!)

 

The brief job you had in far places

Was riven with blunders and costs

Your allowing those arms sales to Saudi

Resulted in lives being lost, you should be shot, (you stupid clot!)

 

So where do you come from my ugly?

Who is it backing your claims?

Why do they trust in your chaos?

Maybe they’re all just the same, or maybe worse (can this be?)

 

Your political outlook is frightening

And bumptiousness maybe a game

But this caricature does not fool us

Cos we can see inside your brain

 

Ritchie Hunter

One comment

  1. Arthur king Arthur of breck Road legend leg_end and more where are you now bucko the world a dullards paradise since u left us.
    Poets are scoffed at in life scoffed at send offs by those scoffing types
    Scuffers scoffers scoffed ad infinitum
    Words desert me like afters after desserts
    Just reward or more just dry zones of implacable thought
    Heaven like heavin close to heathen
    Form of ideas floating on some electric cloud storage device
    You the citizen 1000 years now scoping this trope
    Wonder wtf
    Who was this unannointed royalty king of prose
    Whose legacy
    We cherish
    Every then and now
    Future noughts
    Will poems survive
    Technologies
    Logicalities
    Analogies
    Analogous
    Who can say who will know
    Will they care
    I’d like to thinks it is so
    From a myth to leg_end
    History is boiled up n served
    Exeunt
    Et tu bucko.

    Like

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