T’was 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 wankers.
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 Chancellor’s 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 this so festive story, don’t forget, stop voting Tory
