A Poem: How The Fuck?

How the fuck,
Did she survive?
Just like Brexit
She refuses to die.

Like a cockroach
Crawling on parliament floor
She may be the leader,
But the woman’s a bore.

“The worst thing I did?
Why running through wheat.”
She says to the nation,
Pretending she’s sweet.

But if ever this woman,
Was sweet, now she’s sour.
Like three weeks old milk,
In a fridge without power.

She marches the country
Blind, into darkness
She tells us she cares
But really, she’s heartless.

Her own party wouldn’t invite her
To an event in her home.
I know, it’s as awkward,
As the dance moves, she’s shown.

48 letters, were finally sent
The rest of the Tories think it’s time that she went
Yet, it would appear, she’s been spared her exit,
Because no-one else wants, to touch fucking Brexit.

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