Those French Poetical Asylum Seekers

The prejudice,
Against so called blog poets,
Really is,
In my book at least,
The last acceptable form of racism,
It really is.

So where are our human rights,
Then?
It makes my blood boil,
It does.

Political correctness gone mad,
We're not girly and artistic enough,
Oh no.
But I suppose if,
If I was one of those French poets,
Who spoke,
And wrote,
In that,
If you please,
And I visited brothels,
And so called houses of ill repute,
And I contracted shag-syphilis,
Or some other sex fiend,
Degenerative brain illness,
You know what would happen don't you?
That's right,
The government,
Would give them free groupies,
On the N.H.S.,
Yes!
That's what would happen.

And this is why we invaded Iraq?
I'd like to see those,
French symbolist poets,
Take on suicide bombers,
With their frilly shirts,
And decadent tresses,
And eye liner.

You know they,
Shat out their,
So called windows,
Don't you?
And if they came here
To this country,
To claim some poetical asylum,
If they weren't still dead,
We,
The British blog poets,
Would have to write their poems for,
Them!
Probably in their lingual too,
Translations paid for with,
With your council tax,
You know what I'm saying?

And you know,
And I have to say this,
This really makes me laugh.
Really. Makes. Me. Laugh.
Is that,
I'm not allowed to say,
What I've just said,
Because,
Apparently,
That makes me,
Some kind of racist.
And,
As for the Pharaohs,
Don't even get me started on them,
With their parchment pyramid cats.