Hey, Mister Tangerine Man
build a wall for me,
I’m so weary of Hispanics
walkin’ over me.
Take me on a flight
to where all the guys are white
where the sunshine never ends
and the chicks are perfect tens
and they’re lustin’ all over me.
I’m ready to go anywhere,
believe the things you say;
keep Islamics well away
kiss Vlad Putin twice a day-
cast your golden spell my way.
I promise I’ll go under it.
That last pretence of summer –
slanting sunlight, and the air
settling into velvet – has gone.
Street lamps stutter
pour their pools of steely light
and photoflash each passing face
before it fades in shadow.
We turn back the clocks
enjoying, for a moment, the conceit
that we can turn back time,
control that slippery, elusive hour
which we have lost
or maybe not yet lived.
Try another poem here “Angry German dents car with giant sausage” – The Times
The Top Banana 