Friday 24 December 2021

An extract from Book 3 of The Wokeiad

There chances to be, in the queue behind,

A woke phalangist, pompous and unkind,

An uptight pharisee with syringed ears

Who likes to take offence at what he hears.

Just as the shark, when orca wounds his friend,

Does not to mutuality pretend, 1120

Nor scruple entertains about a feast,

But will partake of pancreas at least;

Or much like Saturn eating his own son

- Sliced buttock flash-fried with a wholegrain bun -

The revolution shall devour its own.

Farewell Robespierre, and goodbye O___ J____.

Unleash the mob! Let Twitter grapevine jive!

Let false friends fall away, and frauds connive.

Now J____ emerges furtive from the store,

full bag of groceries hung from each claw. 1130

At once the cry goes up, the view halloo,

As when Antifa’s blackshirts hunt the Jew.

They chase J____ out of Camden and Chalk Farm,

And all Stoke Newington is up in arms.

West Hampstead and Swiss Cottage bar their gates

While Islington acidly deprecates.

There’s nothing in North London for young J____,

And nobody is answering their phones.

To keep Renard from Kilburn and Cheshunt

They delegate the chase to the Woke Hunt: 1140

Gimpsuited Maenads in their bright pink coats

In chariots pulled by “ponies” fed on oats;

Watch as old man with jowls of giant toad

Is forced to canter up the Edgware Road,

The bridle forcing down his forking tongue

As reaching Maida Vale he busts a lung.

And here the fugitive is run to ground

No Cheyne Walk for him, nor Square of Lowndes.

Instead a nasty dirty little box

Smelling of other people’s farts and socks. 1150

They force him out, the huntsmen with their whips,

By yanking on his hipster bugger’s grips.

They shave his hair off with their razors blunt,

Excoriate him as a Tory cunt.

They set a cardboard dunce cap on his skull,

His social credit and his fame annul.

Now ropes to each of his thin limbs are tied,

Attached to “ponies” harnessed for a ride.

Whipped by the jockeys in their gimpsuits gowned,

The old men, blinkered, neigh and paw the ground. 1160

The Master of the Hunt bids them to start

Pulling the Laureate of Woke apart.

I found this hilarious Swiftian Modest Proposal on Twitter this morning, courtesy of someone calling him/herself Northern Variant

As a Labour MP, I'm often chased down the road by very vocal Labour supporters. I welcome this level of passionate engagement. It's ...