Government Grantchester

low hanging myrtle truths once banished by white decree come home to roost — is there still honey for tea, Rupert? Ask bumblebees of floating greybore voters.

‘We’d hoped they’d all perished in the recent cold snap. old chap.’

Still a few stiffs left out in busted shelters, wheelie bins or found sat bolt upright dead on bent up knees by watching doggers

noxious nectar dribbling from well spiced cardboard coffin ship, apparently a Cambridge boffin, one of them a pal of Stephen Hawking but the wrong denomination for the Queen of the Bees Knees


At just gone


Wheeze print pink money

Give it to them petal poor

Simple acts still born of mindfulness

go at least some way to fake redress

incorporated interests

Half-twelve is quite another matter

vital appointment — two minute hate



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