Here are a couple of relatively recent efforts. 43 seems to be some kind of attack on ivory tower relativism, and 47 ridicules the vapid raptasticness of Kate Tempest:-
Reason suborned by shallow sentiment;
old culture chloroformed, hog-tied and gagged;
facts executed, and their corpses dragged
through lecture halls of Anglia and Trent.
Truth twisted on the relativist’s rack;
philosophy traduced, and maimed, and marred;
poor questions begging in the seminar;
and beauty drowning in a lake of cack.
The march through institutions, once begun,
acquires momentum, grows unstoppable.
So logic’s murdered and is beastly dead,
and Gramsci’s parasitic worms have won.
Sleep now, brainfart, and dream of shitting bull,
for nothing else exists inside your head.
That trite millennial aerial, Tempest
channels, inevitably, Caliban.
It lies beneath her dignity to scan
her adventitious rhymes - a palimpsest,
whose artificial patois has effaced,
beneath a sediment of right-on grime
(Cultural Marxism’s squalidest crime),
high culture’s faintest unregarded trace.
Eternal shame of cringing TV pimp,
of fawning critic, slave to passing fad,
of coked-up literary copraphage!
That agency’s limp-wristed PR gimp
should lavish praise on something quite so bad
marks the degeneracy of the age.