(I am always unimpressed by poems which try to rhyme every line.  They strike me as a self-indulgent exercise in dexterity by the poet.  Anyroadup, here's one.)

St Peter stands at Heaven’s gate

Please be polite; don’t make him wait;

You know you’re past your sell-by date

So just Accept Your Fate.

You know you all exacerbate

Our parlous economic state;

Forget the call to vaccinate;

Be told – Accept Your Fate.

Let’s have no more of this debate;

Make good your will and your estate;

Don’t be a shitty little ingrate

But just Accept Your Fate.