Sutton - Poem by Conor Young
The ignorance of Sutton!
Her people with minds as small as buttons.
Born in Sutton?
You’ll die there too;
It’s for the best,
The rest of us don’t need you!
Generations follow generations
Ten meters is the distance they go from their positions
The Sun is a work of fine literature,
And the Daily (Hate) Mail;
Its public voice.
Ask a son of Sutton:
Where is New York City?
They’ll firmly answer “Leeds”
We must act.
We need to bring every child of Sutton to the Pire;
Because all they make us feel is ire!
So next time you drive through the London subs
Heed my warning:
Go not by Sutton
Anywhere but Slutton!
Unless, that’s what you want?
To die every second of every day.
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