Poetry Hallway - Otter Responds To Hate Mail

Regular readers will be familiar with our regular poetry column, with contributions from the likes of far-left Drew Walton, far-in Limpit Smike, and far-gone Croyland Otter. Our most recent rhyme, a seminal smattering of verse about Brexit and kicking out Poles, rightly attracted angry criticism from just about everybody, including many Brexiteers who understandably failed to grasp the gist of Otter's bollocky poem.

Otter had paid for his naivety and is reportedly in self-imposed exile. (He's in his shed.) We received this confused nonsense this morning, thrust meaningfully, Smike-style, through the letterbox of Poetry Hallway HQ. Shut up, Croyland.





Why Do They Poke? - by Croyland Otter


Scare me, they do, with all spiteful hurtings,
Fear-fill me, they will, with sweary-mouthed dirtings.
Deny me, they shall, all future flirtings,
With the woman who works making nice floral curtings [sic].

Political critics, they think they all know best,
Wind me up with words and now my bed is messed,
With crudulent brownness and fly-blown squirmed infest,
How fri't' all those threats make me; tightness in my chest.

How I hate all those lefties who shout at me, then get,
All rage-filled and screechy with brutal red mindset;
Now I swim in my sleep 'cos I've make my own bed wet,
Caused by mean-minded emails and Facebook-sent death-threats.

Poetry Hallway - An Ode To Nige - Croyland Otter

We're sorry, truly. Owing to the oversights of a previous PH staffer with signatory-level clearance, we find ourselves contractually obliged to share more of Croyland Otter's literary vandalism. This particular outing was accompanied by several pages of "supporting material" which comprised incoherent and naive political rants about how Otter isn't racist but simply wants to "make Britain more like it used to be" - though Otter didn't go into detail regarding which period he was talking about. Based on his prior efforts, we presume Otter would prefer 15th century England.

There's a definite shift in style and subject, which Otter says is his attempt to remain, ahem, "relevant". However, we suspect that he's simply producing poetry for his echo chamber. But there's no point trying to analyse his ramblings, so without further delay, here's some more shit from the Fen Laureate.


Out Of It - by Croyland Otter

I'm the one who voted,
And I also defended,
Getting out of Europe,
And getting Britain mended.

It's gonna be a party,
It's gonna be a blast,
I've picked the side I'll fight for,
Nailed my colours to the mast.

I've honoured all my heroes,
I've renamed my garage,
Somewhere to put my Fiat,
Parked my car in my farage.

I'll be very honest with you,
I'm not entirely clear,
What the EU stands for,
And why we all came here.

But I know that it's a bad thing,
'Cos that's what Nigel said,
Even though he went down with his plane,
And by rights he should be dead.

So maybe he's a zombie?
Or perhaps he's an imposter?
Could it be that all those things he says
Are the ramblings of a tosser?

But he's right about the Polish,
And he's right about the Romanians,
So it's probably not unlikely,
That's he's right about remainians.

And think of all the lovely cash,
Paying for new nurses,
And sending off those horrid euros,
In metaphoric hearses.

My neighbour calls me igna-... ignur-... ignorant,
He thinks I am quite stupid.
He says there'll be no money arrows,
From the Brexiteery cupid.

I wouldn't know, 'cos I don't read,
And what the hell would he know?
He gets the Guardian every day,
Just like a lefty homo.

And Poetry Hallway, (they'll bitch and moan)
And say that I can't say this.
They'll kick me off their lefty blog,
And tell you all I'm 'racist'.

Host organism (left), next to a parasite (right) which will eventually burrow up its arsehole.