I thought you were a cloud of death,
but you were just a misty meaner,
you hung around and stole my breath,
and then you left for Argentina.
You were Astaire cute as you smiled,
with stockings got that day in Brighton,
but I was hirsuit and it riled,
we never ever left the light on.
I smelled the nightshade on your mouth,
but still I longed to end its pain,
but then the far right swayed the South,
You led the evil polls again.
You left me for your nazi clique,
and all that retro femme fatalia,
of silver deaths heads that seemed chic,
was just a vampire's lost regalia.
So now you serve in "the Fourth Reich",
a specialist pub based in Putney,
that does a line in what yobs like,
Hitler's Best Ale Pies 'n Chutney.
I find your irony these days,
as doubtful as your choice in friends,
but oh it's truely said in praise,
you snogged 'til divers got the bends.