Hands, face, space Write your own punchline He's sorry, so that's okay the matter's closed so that's that then ejaculation as Parliamentary privilege if you watch closely he's slipping her fifties with the tongue the blurry image of a clammy grapple wresting the millions and funnelling them down, out, away offshore, the lubricated pipes of finance the KY of money greasing the way for Matt Hancock, Hatt Mancock That Cockman, Mock Anthat You know, that cunt the one who set the police on professors the one who loaded the cash on his mates sometimes you need to be oblique in poems, but sometimes it's better just to say, you know the one who killed all those people then lied about it and I don't care about his pallid gasping his spasmodic clutches and heavy breathing his torch for his old Uni friend, that's a pathetic story, been done a million times but the dead, I care about them