Hop toad in number ten gapes smarmily,
Smiles as he announces his road map out
Of chaotic, self spawned, pandemic mess.
His minions, corruptly mired in graft,
Continue to spin confected conceits,
At flag draped lecterns, back pockets bulging.
Media sychophants scribble it down,
Besotted public still lap it all up,
Cling on desperately to normal dreams.
Crucible, Wembley, London Marathon,
Fine dining, real ale pumped, tennis nets jumped,
Masks discarded, wide open arms hug,
Manufactured relief spreads far and wide.
Beneath the lily pad untold truth hides.

Harry Rogers In The Red Bedroom, 16th May 202.


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