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Tory doors

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Tory doors

Tory door

The terrible curse of the Tory boor, To cheat your brother, rob him sure, To steal from his downtrodden wife, To want - not yours, The curse does bite, Moral flaws 4 sure, 4 greed doth oil the wheels and cogs, Avarice a-plenty 4 Tory dogs, Would steal the fur right off the frogs, If they had sign of any? So seventy years if ya heart don't fail, You can rob the poor, get wages stale, And death can jerk your gorged entrails, But can you pay ole Charon any? So poor again, beside the Styx, You sob with other Tory hicks:( Ac-cursed, by the greed that sticks, Saint Peter isn't friendly??? Don Johnson

Copyright © DON JOHNSON

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