The Houses of Parliament

I arrive at the Houses of Parliament gate,
Behind, lies Cameron's fat, shiny face,
Buffed with oily lacquor of peasant's elbow,
Varnished with licks of Osborne's sticky jizzum.

All around me I sense the sheer twattishness
Curdle my saliva, so I nigh on choke
On the fumes of politically tarnished lives,
Smouldering in piles of rechid manure.

Of a sudden, I might have spied the truth,
Nagh, 'tis Pickles gorging on an obese hen.
I'm engulfed by supercilious white men
As if Suffrage was just a smelly fart.

I wander into a bile-tainted bookshelf
Of crusty volumes spouting spurious pish.
An alarmingly loud babble of buffoons,
Rabbling nonsense as the toddler's tongues twist.

I cry for common sense, but my silent words
Are drowned beneath the seething, callous spit,
As a rain of ignorance drenches the stalls
And the thick, rising mucus throttles my wit.

And there is Milliband licking the drips,
The pandemic meets no antiviral drug.
The system is tainted, the infection persists,
As the candid cure drains toward the plug.