A Tory Christmas

'Twas the night before Christmas, in Tory HQ Not a backbencher stirring, nor focus group. As they partied with Thrasher at the cinnamon club, Two bhunas for Eric cos he loves his grub.

As children shivered all cold in their beds, ATOS told their parents they could work till they’re dead. And If you fall sick don’t count on the state, Buy some insurance or be left to your fate.

When out in the street there arose such a noise, Unmistakeable sounds of Bullingdon Boys. Lets kick in the scroungers and peasants they cry, Blame it on Gordon they’ll fall for the lie.

The moon on the breast of the new-fallen snow Gave the lustre of mid-day to the nightmare below. When, what my frightful eyes took in, Flashman and his cronies all cooked on Gin.

With bright red face and a dismissive wave, There he stood, a rotund “Call me Dave”. More vapid than Dodos his courtiers they came, And he whistled, and shouted, and called them by name.

"Now Grayling! now, Iain! now, Hunt and Lansley On, Gidiot! On, Beaker!, on Hague and Govey! Through every home! Through every hall! Now cut away! cut away! cut away all!"

Give all their schools to our rich party donors, Sell off their Health to the highest bidder. Auction Policing to Security Providers, And cut work credits for debtstricken strivers.

He was dressed all in fur, sourced locally, A Huntmaster in Chipping had given it for free. Whilst Uncle Rupert had paid for his belly, That shook when he blustered, like a bowlful of jelly.

He was chubby and plump, a mean little troll, And I laughed when I saw him, in spite of it all, With triple dip recession looming ahead, we’ll cut housing benefit not cap rents instead.

We’ll cut all your hopes and dreams of the future, We cut all your jobs and put you on Workfare. It won’t matter if we cut too far or too fast, "A Tory Christmas to all, it may well be your last!"