I didn't write this, I wish I did, it’s bloody brilliant:
That honour goes to Babs Horton , author of several published novels
Twas the night before Christmas, and all through the nation,
There was misery, poverty and great deprivation
Some stockings were empty, some fridges were bare,
The heating turned off, little money to spare.
Boris Johnson was cosy, a quaffing champagne,
Cognac and Port so he’s feeling no pain,
Stuffing his chops on goose flesh and gammon,
Caviar, Stilton and the finest smoked salmon.
The homeless are shivering in cardboard containers
Ex-Servicemen, youngsters, both Leave and Remainers
The nurses and doctors all still searching for beds
With a shortage of staff, of money and meds
The Moggs singing carols with moguls and bankers,
Hedge funders, financiers and various w*nkers
Admiring his baubles and pulling his crackers,
Rejoicing that he's got us all by the knackers.
Your Gran's in the corridor, still on the trolley
While the Chancellors counting the last of his lolly
And Grandad’s in pieces, stemming his tears
Though they’ve paid their dues these past sixty years
But hey, Goves on the sherry and is quite off his tits
While his missus is battered and doing the splits
And Drunken Smith is a singing along with the Pogues
With the rest of the mob and a few Russian rogues
And the kids who are dreaming of gifts in the morning
Won’t get them- their benefits were stopped without warning
While those whose dosh is in off-shore accounts
Will be rubbing their hands as the grand total mounts
And the Waspi woman alone in her kitchen
Has long given up on Dancer and Blitzen
She was robbed of her pension, they don’t give a shite
That she’s freezing and hungry on Christmas Eve night
And now, here’s the end of my last festive story
Don't forget to vote- unless you're a Tory.