There was an angry shoebox,
Who mumbled all day long.
He’d whine about the weather,
And ask where all the red telephone boxes had gone.
The shoebox, he joined UKIP
To get the phonebooths back,
And everyone accused him,
Of being a dumbass racist hack.
And they were right, I guess.
(note: all abbreviations mentioned in this poem are entirely fictitious and any resemblance to any abbreviation, living or dead, is purely coincidental)