Electoral Farm

Inspired by our recent electoral experiences post Brexit

Credit: BBC

A tale of Lemmings

The Human Lemmings – all excited and gathering truffles to take back to their piggy god-idols.

The fleshy, bald, pink masters – whom they all love so well – wolf down their truffle offerings and trample their adoring little lemming worshippers. An orgy of oinking and squealing and flatulence and fur and steaming blood.

And still they come – the euphoric little rodent flock – bringing more truffles to satisfy their masters. Some bring fermenting apples from the orchards. Others shave the fur from their tiny lemming bodies to become pink and emulate the stubbly, shiny, spotty gods they so admire.

“Oink” squeak some of the shitty-brown vermin disciples. “Oink oink”…

A cry rings out across the shires: “We did it for you piggy-lords. We did it all for you. We shat on our ancestors and we stabbed all who tried to stop us. We stabbed them right in the back! All for you, our beloved better-piggies. Love us for it, please love us!”

But their beloved piggy idols simply turned from them since it was time for brandy and cigars. They turned their backs to the squealing lemming masses and piled their opulent, stinking, squirty turds upon the ecstatic little rodent bodies. They did this, as was prophesied, so that the rich and worthy should always have a good sty to frolic around come the morning.

The lemming leaders looked around. They turned and spoke to the masses who had sacrificed so much. They raised their little heads and stretched their many chins to proclaim their message:

“Tomorrow they shall love us – it was always going to be tomorrow. They shall love us. Trust us!”