Song to the self

Song to the self

The shelves are being emptied
Of arsewipe and pasta
By heavily built
Self-made stupids
In fleets of shiny SUVs
Adorned with plates
That don’t quite spell
Whatever it is
We’re meant to read
Whose kids come swerving
Bleating and swearing
To garages filled
So high with essentials
There’s nowhere to put the car

Oh, joy Oh, joy for the island race
Oh, joy for the island race!