That New Tory Leader Selection Process In Full

by Jim Mainland

First you take a barrel.

Then you take a scraper.

Screeeenkadreggs. Scruuunkadross.
Slumphasloppleflumphlyfrappleflubb.
Scripplescroppasloopersludglewibble.
Nfffft. Prsssttt. Byokk.
SkrokkSkrokkSkrokkSkrokkSkrokkSkrokk…

Bleugh-splott!

Slobbadollop!

Distruss

by David Erdos

And so the shit squats, or is on holiday somewhere,
Sitting out the next fortnight, in which finally ousted.
He’s flushed to join the sluice his sick soul has always
Been part of, while all around we’re fragmenting

Because of whose hand is wiping; but that doesn’t matter
As we’ll be wiping our arse with a brush. Hard times
Threaten for sure to out-dickens Dickens. Fuelled by
This new energy crisis, where bills by October

Will be three times more than last year,
While nothing can be done until Bore-is pulls up
His trousers. If sidling across he espouses, turn off
The TV, shed a tear for a time that’s long lost,

When there were leaders to believe in.
I am talking after Christ and Mohammed.
I can’t think when, if you press me, but maybe
Somewhere, they are there. If not on this earth,

Then in the multiverse, maybe. Where figures like
Ken Campbell and Stephen Hawking. administer ministries
Built on care. Today, its Sunak, or Truss; disaster in a dress,
Proto-Thatcher, but whose policies, its reported go all the way

Back to Ted Heath. Does a new three-day week loom,
As we huddle around a damp matchbox or should we hope
For the return of the heatwave of recent weeks
To helpfully still our teeth? The options inform, and make us

Infirm once considered. The moral high ground has crumbled,
Tec(h)tonically taken down. Now all that remains is the space
Through which numerous political phantoms have foraged,
Eager to feed on our failings to remove and revolt,

The red, white and blue turns to brown. Which is where
We came in, right at the top of this poem. The anal analogy
May be basic, some might say crude, but it works.
The truly ignorant cannot see that we are not even

Atlantis’ broken basement. The spires we built aren’t worth
Saving, and the towers of Brexit make Pisa seem straight.
We’re berserk. Running mad through our halls as the shit
Fate’s shat stains pyjamas. The asylum has ruptured

As the pavilions of the past are sea-seized. Which is here
On dry land, in both your lounge and on High Streets
Along which they would see us all lower, fodder for them
As we freeze later on in the year, or when the next lab gas

Gets cocky, and we fall as we have done for the next
Talking prick. Or pudenda, of course, unconcerned
For our welfare. Govermental glans, they will fuck you,
But will you resist? Suck, or kick. Which is it? Say now.

Before it's too late.
Rip, rise. Surrender.
Distruss. Distress.
Damn them, for putting us here.

Time’s bomb ticks.