eigth of the eight, twenty twenty

Its the eigth of the eigth,

twenty twenty.

We come from,

a land of plenty.


I’ve given up,

All but hope,

This tiger will never,

get a grope.


Trump’s the last,

wrecked it for all.

Now a grope,

is a bucket list fall.


Not that I ever,

had that courage.

Of getting slapped,

from never’s minds forage.


A pint and a half,

Is all it would take.

And my mouth ploughs forthright,

With the stories of great.



It dwindles away.

Fading to obscurity,

So live for today.



and a triumphant blast,

wouldn’t take much,

I know I wouldn’t last.


No more pink tops,

or up on high heelsters.

No more blonde rinses,

or short skirt spinsters.


No more patty patty,

no more laughs.

No more sharing,

the things that are daft.


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