Song: It's Purgatory! Poem by Dave SmithWhite

It's purgatory! It's mandatory,
For the congress of infidels.
It's purgatory! It's statutory,
For this clueless swathe of swells.
It's purgatory! A laboratory,
As the upper house rebels.
It's purgatory! Not hunky-dory,
In the citadel.

It's purgatory! Now that's a story!
A tale that few can tell.
It's purgatory! It's 'memento mori',
For all who must excel.
No state of grace but torments gory.
To expiate his sins of glory.
It's purgatory! Purgatory!
Where he has cast a spell;
From that ghastly place he dwells.

It's purgatory. But should he worry?
Then it hit him like a ten-ton lorry.
A snowflake in a funk and flurry.
It's purgatory. Purgatory!
It's purgatory. But what's the hurry?
No quid pro quo, no favors curried,
From a toxic swamp of swale and slurry,
It's purgatory. Purgatory!

A cautionary -it's arbitrary:
To walk on soft eggshells.
It's all fake news and commentary:
Of fully blown whistles and bells.
But he calls them out, he's quite contrary,
Like an eagle from an exalted aerie.
A fat cat with a prone canary.
He knows too what sells,
And that their own failed brand repels.

It's purgatory!A great furore.
It's unparalleled.
When older heads, grey and hoary,
Witness giants felled.
And on the burning floor, there's tribal war,
The bible bashers and the real hardcore.
It's purgatory. Purgatory!
Like pods of peas unshelled,
With the god of lies upheld.

A cautionary - it can be scary,
Confronted by an orange fairy.
When he rants and yells,
With his contorted face of tells.
It's purgatory!It's inflammatory.
Brimstone and rank smells.
In purgatory!It's auditory,
In cranked up decibels.

From purgatory! It's transitory,
And soon he'll be expelled.
Condemned and damned for alleged outlawry,
By the mainstream press cartel.
By democrats and all their ilk,
They spread their hate like mother's milk,
While he remains as smooth as silk,
But destined to be quelled,
With rights and dues withheld.

It's purgatory! At five and forty.
A room at some grand hotel.
It's purgatory! On the thirteenth storey.
In a secret cell.
The stage is set for a violent orgy.
The inmates rage like whigs and tories.
It's purgatory. Purgatory!
Where a brute is caged and belled,
With iron bars and weld,
To suffer there compelled,
His teflon skin dispelled.

It's purgatory. What a story!
So a nation's pride might swell.
With all untruths exculpatory,
It twists and turns - chandelle.
So can't you see? You'll all be sorry!
You can't make me your cornered quarry,
When it's world war three, it's hari-kari;
You'll all go down as well,
Like pickled eels in jell,
Or oysters from their shell.
Sewn in my own lapel,
I've the codes to say farewell.
And ring that old death knell.
On the road to hell!