Mr Burnham is human, it seems, after all
His gynaecomastia proves he’s sincere
In his good bloke intentions, so try not to sneer,
An Englishman’s breasts be they ever so small,
Develop from drinking fine Englishman’s beer,
Though sometimes I hear,
That others say,
Men only grow moobs if they drink I.P.A.
(The State Proposes A Solution For Members of the Public Who are Found to be Worried About the Frequent Rapes, Stabbings and Murders Which They Read About Online)
It is my belief
You have been lulled
Into a false sense of insecurity
And as you never seek relief,
For this malign condition,
But go scrolling on,
Reading Twitter,
Seeking further feelings of grief,
Not just feeling angry and bitter
But feeling those feelings are justified,
Then the only cure,
Is to lock you up
Making sure
You are really secure.
The cynosure,
The guiding light,
Provides a sign ashore
Within our sight,
To reassure,
A star by which to navigate,
Appearing when the day is late,
To guide us home
To keep us straight,
To help us steer towards what’s right.
We seldom need to innovate,
The cynosure
Just shines ashore
It is a beam
Catching the eye,
Beheld, despite some speck or mote,
Radiant on the darkest night,
Glowing through the darkest sky,
Providing hope to keep afloat.
Reality is hard, right wing,
Nature is red in tooth and claw,
Truth is the most realistic thing,
It happens again as it happened before,
Don’t be ideological anymore,
Your theory is balls, let it go, do not cling,
Believe the little girl next door,
Reality is hard, right wing.
It is bullshit you’re determined to sling,
If it’s complex, long winded and frankly a bore,
Reality has a simple ring,
Nature is red in tooth and claw.
A thorn, a barb, a stick in the craw,
And the clarity of the note truth will sing
Will not beat as the blood soaks into the floor,
Truth is the most realistic thing.
What is it in you that wishes to fling
False accusations derived from a flaw?
Reality’s predictable as spring,
It happens again as it happened before,
There’s rarely any surprise in store,
Seldom a novel ‘take’ to wring,
Barely use for a metaphor,
Theories gilt paint on soft metal bling,
Reality is hard.
