Imagine, if you will, the sorry scene
The morning after, when, for all their sins
You've had to go and empty all the bins
At Downing Street. You didn't want to clean
Who does? You spray a mist of Mr Sheen
And polish, then you pick up all the tins
With fag butts in, and bottles of fruit gins
With lipstick on, and wonder who has been
The twat who spaffed the red wine up the wall
Or drunk enough to decorate with sick
The silken carpets running up the hall
If you were rich you'd tell them where to stick
Their fucking job, their fag butts, and their wine
- You spray a bit more Mr Sheen, and shine

© Gail Foster 26th May 2022