Well the conservative tower is starting to crumble down they fall one by one not long now general election in the making.
Out with the old lying, cheating, devious Tory’s
Bye bye mad May.
We still believe, we still believe
He's coming home,
He's coming home, He's coming
Corbyn's coming home
He's coming home,
He's coming home, He's coming
He's coming home
Tears for heroes dressed for the day
No plans for final day
Stay in bed, drift away
It could have been all
Songs in the street
It will be complete
It really so sweet
And now I'm singing
A red rose on a shirt
John mc Donnell is gleaming
No more years of hurt
No more need for dreaming
Talk about Corbyn coming home
and then one day in London
We were strong, we had grown
Now I see Burnham ready for war
Watson good as before
Abbott certain to score
May the psycho Screaming
A red rose on a shirt
John Mc donnell still gleaming
8 years of hurt
Never stopped me dreaming
I know that was then
But i could happen again
He's coming home,
Hes coming home, He's coming
Corbyn's coming home
He's coming home,
He's coming home, He's coming
Corbyn's coming home
He's coming home,
He's coming home, He's coming
Corbyn's coming home
He's coming home,
He's coming home, He's coming
Corbyn's coming home
He's coming home,
He's coming home, He's coming
Corbyn's coming home
A red rose on a shirts
john mc Donnell still gleaming
8years of hurt
Never stopped me dreaming
A red rose on a shirt
John mc Donnell still gleaming
8years of hurt
Never stopped me dreaming.
He's coming home
He's coming home
Corbyn's coming home.
Corbyn
Corbyn
Corbyn
Corbyn.
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📢 Raise Your Voice Thread: 04/25/2024
Our “Raise Your Voice Threads” are hosted every other Thursday at 12PM ET to offer creators more avenues to uncover exceptional stories on Vocal. As we are continuously searching for fresh creators and inspiring stories, this thread provides an opportunity to exchange and discuss the stories that have moved and motivated us on Vocal.
By Raise Your Voice by Vocalabout 15 hours ago in Resources
Reaching Out
I promise her. I'd do anything for her. She's my mom. Even as Lanie and Deanna are flying home, Mom is scrappy fighting dying. She lays too still in that too-big bed with all the toasty white hospital blankets, in the south tower, at the broad end of a long slow-turning corner that delivers me again to her private room with the view she can't see through, with the beeping that tells us nothing new, and all these ice chips she can't swallow, and a flood of well-intentioned nurses who cannot do a damned thing all the same.
By Christy Munson4 days ago in Fiction
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