Lummy good, tum-tum and garbles

Not a snifter of whip-crank Jerry
and his portentous bloody mist,
no Kissinger on the side-car,
Farnsworth laid cack-out on the back
of the piss-box. Stanley Mule coping.
Shenkley and co holding schnoz
in the back row, stinking up
the Queen's own with their blessed-out,
skunk-weed. "Hooray for poison,
say he Chinkie with the unstung penchant
for cabbage. Menus for the Passage to India.
Pigging Gordon, licked out and tucked in,
dreaming of top trumps. Splash in the tyre
pile. Souped out and smelling of coriander.
Give it a rest, you lip-riddled prig.