The Skies Will Fall!

It's been whole days- they yawn as if millennia- and I'm scared witless, awaiting certain oblivion!

Daring barely to peek from beyond the sofa, I see that the sky is still blue, that the sun still rises in the east and sets in the west, yet this is surely but an illusion. Life as we once knew it has irrevocably changed, and we are all damned to eternity!

The seconds sound leadened, each one a cancerous nail driven with malice into humanity's collective coffin. The wheeling gulls cry into the approaching storm, yet I hear only human screams. Night draws its veil and I fear that even the stars are slowly winking out. I have taken to charting the heavens, and I am certain that Sunday's count is down. The air tastes strange-surely you've noticed it- slightly bitter, it burns my throat and claws at my eyes. I cry at the slightest provocation.

Thanks to William Cho

If Wednesday's morning's skyline is unchanged the temporary sameness of it all will only taunt me! Tick follows tock, follows tick...

Yes, madness has consumed the nation- some of it- and the UK is now listing, sinking slowly but certainly, strangled by its briny tourniquet. We must pray for the aeons to cleanse our wretched rock free from its sins, that we might someday arise again, more humbled and perhaps begin afresh.

"Gawd 'elp us!" an impeccable observer of the facts has uttered. No further questions m'Lud!
"Unelectable!" one insightful Express reader noted.
Some critics have said, "His clothes are too old."

The election of Jeremy Corbyn has brought about a deep and analytical scrutiny that one might reasonably reserve for carriers of a modern black plague, infectious upon breath, upon mere sight!

Thanks to Franck Vervial

Beware the Corbynistas, they will steal away your children in the night, harvesting human organs to power the mighty bellows. Hell is not yet warm enough! Clutch the infants to your breasts, gather around the night fires- industrial action has already stolen our meagre light- and whisper stories of the dark 1970s, when the Four Horsemen commanded a lawless army so mighty that the hoard covered the earth from coast to coast, consuming everything in its wake. The viscous pitch that bubbled in its trail devoured even the last vestiges of ghostly colour, leaving a vapid landscape where only the scorching winds did thrive.

"Won't be getting my vote!" the Mail's political editor enlightened.
"... bit of an own goal!" discredited pie salesperson Eamonn Holmes scorned.
Some critics have said, "His hair is too grey."

Beware the Loony Left that might bring down our towering glass empire of inequality, throwing up instead ugly brick monstrosities that might house the work-shy unclean, denying them the just rewards of honest toil. Mocking laughter will again ring out to stain the very aether. It denies our most reasonable attempts to commodify the terminal patients superfluous organs. Respect for the animal kingdom will be terminated, as trophy heads and target hides are again discarded to roam financially burdensome into the void of valueless nature.

Thanks again, to William Cho

"... always happy to spend other people's money," HSBC tax consultant Justin Sane told the Sun newspaper.
Some critics have said, "His bike is too slow."

The hard left that despises aspiration, that would meddle in God's work, where man may be set above man, above man, above man, that we all might know and cherish our given place upon this earth. A medieval void beckons to the foolhardy, leading them away from the honourable servitude of their betters, and into the traitorous gawp of that impostor security, away from incentivising and Godly insecurity.

Let not your person slip- as has mine- into that Satanic cauldron of hard left supporters, lest your soul be forever doomed to respect your fellow country persons. Let us instead together cower and pray that the Righteous Sword of DWP, the Avenging Angel IDS, might yet return us to the pathway to honest toil and salvation!

"Copy to press, Mr Paul Dacre?"