The Craven

Once upon a morning early, from bed I stumbled eyes all blurry, A product of too many pints on the night before

While I yawned and stretched and scorned myself, And checked my wallet for remaining wealth, I heard my door close in attempted stealth

A guest from the night before? If only I could remember, we went to a club solely for members, But I had a friend who could get us through the doors

Down the stairs I wander breakfast calls me yonder, Outpaced by snails I ponder who was here the night before, There are no clues, no clothes upon the floor

But on the kitchen table sits a warning that I miss, Until I've had my morning tea cracked the eggs and got my whisk

There is a paper on the table, one that wasn't there before, As I pick it up I cast my eyes towards the door,

This paper I despise, a putrid melting pot of lies, I lift my head and cry, who left the Daily Mail on my kitchen table?

I stand to leave the paper or at least that is my aim, But I find I can't ignore the words written on its frame, or the writer dancing like a puppet in the devils domain

As I read it I feel wretched sickened sad enfeebled desperate, As the headline reaches out and clocks me on the jaw

Quoth the Daily Mail 'Its Political Correctness giving Your pension cancer?

The paper claims asylum seekers are killing sense and decency, That health and safety only helps to serve increase obesity

And lesbians are killing farmers,

These are just a sample of their Daily Dramas, I burn that paper in my fire I just can't take it anymore, Quoth the Daily Mail, never more