A Strange Kind Of Prime Minister

He steps forth nervous,
all eyes watching,
he hopes it’ll be worth it,
through the jeers and back slapping.

Room all a swirl,
the effects of Dom Perignon and soda.
Lights blur in pearl,
as he steadies nerves with vodka.

The older boy reclined in his throne,
strokes the pig’s head that calls his lap home.

He swallows his pride,
takes a step forward.
Undoes his fly,
turns his eyes wall-ward.

With a grunt of effort,
thrusts at the mouth.
Finds no comfort
as he hits the snout.

The room erupts.
The laughter is raucous.
As a voice interupts,
yelling “sir porkcus!”

This time takes aim,
meets piggy’s eye.
Swallows his shame
and takes another try.

He darts forth holding his member.
Telling himself “never surrender!”

Lands himself right between the lips.
Announced to the room with a shudder of the hips.

Tidying his trousers,
thinks all is private.
Should be wary that adders
will with vengeance reveal it.

When you fuck the poor
people will know it,
and when you turn scarlet,
will want more of it.

So David Cameron my old mucker,
this is why I laugh that you’re a pig fucker!

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