Cover this month with better than a video
From the co-created Press that told me I was low deal,
At the table of miscreant worship of idols and mistakes
That carry less than before after a toxic dump and some steal.

Where has the past gone of woolly love and happy times?
How can the dustbin man be so sure, to arrive early and on time?
There is suspicion in the air of the kind that realises too many things at once
When the Polls are opened up for the voted to go Woke like a nuanced bonce.

Maybe by the middle of the month the astronomy will be friendly
So that the turn of events will tunnel a love for the people to know
A merrier Brexit with some followings from Scotland
That travel down south through Portsmouth and channel overseas to France to show.

What land? My Ireland and the flag of my youth. The proof,
That Queen Victoria knew the hysteria of Indian cough
Syrup on the floor where the door is shut on rubbish tips
And match fixing for the Chennai Ruff Riders and those pouted WAGs’ lips.

Complex? I thought so, as the European Union broke up
While the Bollywood was fidelity to South American maestros on the cup
Of teas thrown overboard and hoarded since Boston met Bangladesh,
And Isis turned over Egypt for democracy so that the army could hide under Desh.

So far so good, and January is still under the secrecy of Buddha
Whose Aquarian Age is amidst the power of the Violet Flame
So that gospels can ring true in their grouping about clubbers
Not partying in the Soho districts for the name of blame that game.

Was it Saturn or was it Mars that let the pictures change before words
As the Newspapers told of a virus that shut down 2020 for all that was absurd,
So the rhythm of a poet was as uneven to the noses and ears of those who know it:
England has finer vines and twisted runes than this rehearsed verse and complaint.

Sell it Tennyson or ask Keats what to do with the next failed song,
It will be a cold day in hell before I am not R Kelly before too long:
Gospels to Christian economies and enemies of Marxists and all that,
Maybe the end of the month is more creative and less viral for all the snow that went splat.

Time is a healer for sometimes it is all that is really there
After all the critique and back biting that leaves one dull of affairs
Where nobody actually not-trolled the avatar who went to the Superbowl
To empty noises in the FA Cup or something before the crowds now virtual vitriol.

If all the world is a stage, then January will find out
How the rest of the year jumps around and spread bets shares all around.
There are many days left for the sun to fall as the moon rises
And after a vaccine has been created for 2021 after Article 51:
Maybe we can relax after some tax on those dividends and prices.

So get with the program, the song wont be long
This year is coming ahead of the old one and the famous people kept the songs.
There was i-Tunes and Facebook after another attempt to find
The ethos for magical culture and an Open Sesame to finance that was kind.

January is the month of new beginnings and nature is open for the fallow soil
To welcome some respite from the post-industrialised laughter
Of those with all the jobs and economy for boys and girls.

But the threat of February will not go away, lest Mercury is descended in Kali
And Gauthama reminds the health of a healing nation, that America is now not so mighty.

Thus was spoken the first day of melted snow: In and from an England that does not matter so much.