According to the poet,

It began in ‘sixty-three,

When rhythms of the world were young

So many songs remained unsung,

And life was gentler in degree.

There had been rumblings, of course;

The signs were there some years before

That the secret might be out

(Arthur Seaton had put it about),

But few could tell what lay in store.

It should have been a watershed,

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To the only begetter of this ensuing sonnet Mr P LARKIN All happiness and that eternity promised by our ever-living poet wisheth the well-wishing adventurer in setting forth

They fuck you up, your Fathers and your Mums:
Their Birthright, Dowry, Heritage, and Lot
Of Faults, with further added to their Sums,
Pass down from what they had to what they've got;
These Faults, again, they gained fr...

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They fuck you up, these brexit turds,

it's what they're born to, that's their rôle;

they fill you with their empty words

much as they shit into your soul.

Of course, they've heard it all before,

from parents - and grandparents too:

"compassion's out! You must abhor

those migrants, or they'll overrun you."

Racists perpetuate themselves

and make others like them,...

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