Memories of Newquay, Queen of the Cornish Coast

O what a lovely spot is Newquay on Cornwall's northern coastline,
Full of arty shops, windswept sunny beaches and sweaty discos
(Where so very easy to score for a cheap feel-up with a little luck).
But there is a darker side to this oceanic heaven:
Believe me, I know, I was there several months ago;
Yea, verily, I have seen savage death in all its horror and terror.

I was walking along, along the Seafront gaily went I,
With honoured grandmother-in-law (one of the veterans)
When a troop of Islamicist youths who Brexit cannot stop,
Sky high on cocaine crack, or other illicitly partaken drug stuff,
Pulled out of the balmy palmy trees with machetes,
And gave her a good old naughty total fuck-up.

They left that old Gran sprawling there lying in a dogturded gutter,
O See! Her chopped skull is open, puny brain exposed to windy elements,
And why? Her imported mobile phone and its sophisticated camera facilities.
The old goat hung on pointlessly in miserable half-abandoned existence.
For a few repulsive gurney'd weeks broken in some NHS hospital corridor.
Dear spirits of the heavens, no fucking way will I visit bleeding Cornwall again.