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Culled from Facebook, so stolen in its entirety

`I see you, Jeremy Corbyn.
I see your snowy beard and your regal silver hair. I see your cardigans and your flat cap, your linen shirts, your open collars. I see the corduroy and the elbow patches. You look like a geography teacher on a Yoga retreat, Jeremy Corbyn, and half the time I'm expecting you to crack out some bongos and a spliff the length and girth of a donkey's cock.

But I like that about you, Jeremy Corbyn. I like the fact that at some point some greased weasel in a Savile Row suit probably asked you to put some more thought into your image. I like the fact you clearly told him to fuck off, because you're quite happy dressing like a model train enthusiast who only shops in Oxfam.

I see the steel that your facade hides, Jeremy Corbyn. I see Krishnan Guru-Murthy try to take you down, even though he's a grown man who still gels his hair like a teenager expecting to finger a girl in a nineties cinema. I see the anger flash in your eyes as you refuse to be drawn into the pointless circus, the maelstrom of media bullshit they're all flinging out to muddy the waters.

I see they weren't expecting it, Jeremy Corbyn, when a little integrity actually resonates with people. I see Andy Burnham's confused little Ken-doll face as he looks at the polls. It's almost as if Labour supporters quite like the idea of not plunging thousands of children into poverty, isn't it, Jeremy Corbyn? It's almost as if not everyone wants cuts piled on cuts served up by a bunch of snivelling cunts in tuxedos. It's almost as if fawning in their shadow doesn't constitute an opposition.

It's almost as if you seem human, Jeremy Corbyn, even if you probably are too idealistic. It's almost as if you might actually give a shit. It's almost as if you're doing this because you actually want to help people rather than fill your pockets with caviar and blood money.

It's almost as if you could win, Jeremy Corbyn. It's such a shame, isn't it?

Such a shame that you'll always be too busy, too tired, too perpetually on edge.

Such a shame that your holy task is the only thing you can truly commit to.

I see you, Jeremy Corbyn, trudging through the grass of the cemetery. I hear the chirping of crickets in the night air and the shriek of a distant fox. I see your breath in the cold void, your flat cap barely lit by the gas lamp bobbing up and down in your hand.

I see the duffel bag in your other hand, Jeremy Corbyn. I see the wooden handle protruding from it. I see the crypt, the gargoyles overseeing its marble corners wrapped in ivy, their grotesque faces mocking and taunting you as the sickly yellow light from your lantern casts long shadows on their features.

I see you push the heavy iron door, Jeremy Corbyn, and I hear the metal shriek. I see you step on the roughly-cut stone steps of the crypt. I hear water dripping from the walls as your descend the spiral staircase, the glow of your lamp bobbing like a firefly in the abyss.

I see your feet touch the sodden earth at the bottom of the staircase, Jeremy Corbyn. I see you hang your lamp on a rusty hook on the wall. I see the high roof of the cave, the stalactites dripping groundwater onto the lichen-covered ground.

I see the crude wooden cross in the churned earth, Jeremy Corbyn. I smell the sweet scent of decay. I see you check your watch. It's five minutes to midnight, isn't it, Jeremy Corbyn?

I see you place the duffel bag down on the ground. I see you pull the wooden shaft free and I see its perfectly sharpened point. I see you aim it at a spot in the earth just in front of that wooden cross, your body taut, coiled like a snake ready to pounce.

I hear your watch beep once as the clock strikes midnight, Jeremy Corbyn.

I hear you gasp as a withered hand punches through the muck, clawing to get out, dragging itself free. I see the frizzy orange hair, the dessicated head, the empty eye sockets. I see the fanged mouth hissing, spitting dirt. I see a second hand burst free, reaching for you, frantically pedalling the air.

I see you brace yourself, Jeremy Corbyn. Not yet.

I see the torso burst from the earth, Jeremy Corbyn. I see the faded blue of the mouldering old blouse. I see the pearl necklace.

I see you lunge, Jeremy Corbyn. I see the point of your spear crash through the monster's ribs, splintering them like wet twigs. I hear the inhuman roar, nasal and high-pitched. I feel the ground shake as the beast screams, smoke pouring from its rotten mouth.

I see it slump, Jeremy Corbyn, the skeletal fingers twitching and drumming on the earth. I hear you breathing heavily as you pull your weapon free.

This is your real duty, isn't it, Jeremy Corbyn? In the day, you do all you can to keep cruelty out of power. But at night - every night - you're here. All because she's too evil to stay where she belongs. All because every night, she tries to claw her way out of Hell. All because this lady's not for burning.

Every night, Jeremy Corbyn.

Well, almost every night. Charlotte Church does every other Wednesday, just so you can have a nap and a spliff.

I see you, Jeremy Corbyn.



keep to the Fen Causeway
by Helen (lareinagal at yahoo dot co dot uk) on Wed Aug 5th, 2015 at 11:14:05 AM EST
Nice.

I used to be afew. I'm still not many.
by john_evans (john(dot)evans(dot)et(at)gmail(dot)com) on Wed Aug 5th, 2015 at 04:12:23 PM EST
[ Parent ]
I must admit I feel a disconnect: I'm too jaded and too focused on longer-term calculations to share such supporter enthusiasm, but recognise it as major factor.

*Lunatic*, n.
One whose delusions are out of fashion.
by DoDo on Tue Aug 11th, 2015 at 05:36:24 AM EST
[ Parent ]
 Damn whoever wrote that has a graphic imagination, delightfully gothic, though the genre is not much to my taste some shituations demand some grue.

'The history of public debt is full of irony. It rarely follows our ideas of order and justice.' Thomas Piketty
by melo (melometa4(at)gmail.com) on Wed Aug 5th, 2015 at 04:15:57 PM EST
[ Parent ]

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