Reading the Paper in 2020

I used to think I'm nothing like
me dear old bloke-y dad,
bellyaching 'bout new laws
and queers in Parliament.
 
But even though I hardly share
his little England views,
I find myself with just as much
all-enshrouding hate,
besides the deep, abiding view
that rich v poor is where it's at,
and on the underlings Old Boys
have always and forever shat.
 
Reading the fucking paper, Christ,
all those middle-class wankers
with snub noses and folded arms
and avatars that say
"listen here, o plebs,
my voice is what will bring you through
the everlasting day."
 
Another stinking lecture from the fucking journo press,
telling us to eat our beans
and not get all depressed.
What's the point of rioting
or asking for our rights?
Mrs Jobsworth, Tunbridge Wells,
has got us in her sights.
Even though she's not been fucked since 1964
she's worried about genitals
and why trans kids are changing sex,
because of course, back in her day,
they lived in fear or killed themselves
away from her concern.
 
Back when she watched the BBC
and cheered for paedo cunts
(fucking girls
from foster homes/
saluting Queen
and families),
Mrs Jobsworth, Mr Prick,
and all their worthless lot
were happy in their mouldy cot,
having clutched the whole blankie
thus leaving all the kiddies out,
rather seen (and touched) than heard.
 
But I'm not saying Joanne Bloggs
and every "normal" type
is any better than
the cock fungus churning out columns.
 
Scroll to the comments board
of any online rag
and see what "education" wreaks
upon a generation raised
on privilege and pomp.
 
I've given up replying to
these worthless offal tubs,
all white and straight and proud
and fucking ignorant,
ready to take away your rights
but frothing at the mouth
the second someone comes along
and says that maybe other lives matter.
 
In the end, essentially,
down to the rub and basically,
I hate the screeching mongoloid
unstoppable masses,
ranged in text on smartphone apps
and tablet apps
and websites everywhere.