'' Now I'm Flush, With Toilet Roll '' Poem by Bri Mar

In dangerous times,
We follow the blind,
Commit many crimes,
We become unkind,
When that bell chimes,
It means you're confined.
That soon takes its toll.

Though you may die,
You become a prepper,
You go out and buy,
Mass stocks of pepper,
Others you deny,
To you they're a leper,
They're left with an empty bowl.

Pasta and rice,
There for the taking,
Though it's not nice,
Others you're forsaking,
Can I have a slice,
No, I know you're faking,
The starving I refuse to console.

There's no more food,
But I'm okay,
I'm feeling so good,
My hoarding does pay,
Though some find it crude,
It tastes just like hay,
The three ply I must extol.

The virus has won,
I cannot be fed,
Those tales being spun,
I was being led,
No sign of a run,
Yet, I'll soon be dead,
My hoarding was out of control.

At the bitter end,
I feel such a sap,
Being buried in a blend,
Of arsewipe scrap,
I followed the trend,
Yet, never did crap,

‘' Now I'm Flush, With Toilet Roll ‘'