Take It Up With Them

I met a communist in the neon hall of commerce known as Sainsbury’s and we chatted about theory near the Argos outlet. 

We preened each other’s bright red wings and we postulated that what Marx did not predict was our collective commitment to self-commoditisation on social media. 

Muskrats, all of us, by committee and by choice, wack.

Don’t ask me

Take it up with him

Catch this, our oh-so-cultured United Kingdom of crumbling hope and broken faces,  in the futuristic twenty twenties.

If you’re on your own at night and you see a lone policeman, you are advised NOT to approach him – and it always is a ‘him’ – but to run away. 

Ugh, that’s not what my mum used to say, man. 

A. C. A. B.:

Take it up with them

I don’t make the rules

Take it up with them

Anyone who wants to be Prime Minister should be immediately disqualified from taking the job.

 Anyone who wants a career as a politician should first serve a two year apprenticeship on minimum wage in a slaughterhouse. 

Anyone who wants to buy a guitar should have a two-month cooling off period, like the Yanks with their cold steel guns.

They’re all unhinged

Take it up with them

When you’re already mouldering in your ruined and blasted-out shell and waiting for this horrendous farrago to end 

Track me finely, chum

Chances are it’s all done, but hey there bucko, what if you could yet groove it up with the seraphim?

Deathbed conversion’s such a beauty of a get-out clause. Cascade through my clouds and swivel your eternal hips to dear God’s disco sounds; he’s a lovely mover.

It’s Pascal’s Wager

Take it up with him

Take it up with them

Take it up with them

I don’t make the rules

Take it up with them