To Rishi Sunak
Garish ghouls in their wooden cabinet send our coins to burn to a cinder.
Woken by the steel of the sheep-loathing flock, we bear technicolour dreams.
They spit at progression, favouring the cock fights of shadow people.
At its helm, this country’s very own Cronus scavenges from the boats.
He prowls where thespians walk, ripping the magma from Shakespeare’s ghost.
The blood of Hamlet is but a smear on the flesh-ridden staff he picks teeth with.
Back to the beaches, the basilisk waits in the sand, waits for the caustic grin.
To blight the flyleaf with phlegm, to have done it once again.
Courtenay's Corner 