She’s cosplaying poor
He’s a mansplaining bully
There are points to be scored
If her memory’s woolly
Of nice days in Roundhay
She wants you to choose
Between her cheapo Claire’s earrings
And his posh Prada shoes
I’m the son of a chemist
Rich Rishi declares
I helped serve curry
And with Mum’s tax affairs
But he’s interrupting
Like privilege does
The audience deducting
For his hedge fund boss buzz
While both of ‘em forget
That they’re part of the problem
What they promise to fix
Was just broken by ‘em
They disagree on tax hikes
But both agree to break strikes
Mick Lynch was right
About how far they’re right
It’s the choice of a kicking
From her boots or his shoes
Come September
Who will Waitrose Woman choose?
Category: poetry
Liz Truss and the Race For PM
From Yorkshire tea farms to British cheese
And broken treaties to spats with the Chinese
And mixing up the Black and the Baltic seas
She has the support of 86 MPs
From a Mrs T haircut and a picture in a tank
To ducking debates where she might draw a blank
She wants to squeeze families and bang the dumb
She’s the Anyone But Rishi for your conservative chum
From the bloke off Have I Got News For You
To the woman off I’m Sorry, I Haven’t A Clue
The shortcoming of ‘em running is as shocking as it’s stunning
Brace yourselves Britain, the cheese woman is coming
Bye, Bye, Farewell, Fuck Off
Nurses using foodbanks
Security tags on Lurpacks
His legacy ain’t witty repartee
That fella off the TV
Blow me ain’t he funny
It’s poverty
And lies
And blind eyes
And meetings with spies
The drive to privatise
The drive to Barnard Castle too
The first clue
To another rule for you
And racist too
Deportations to Rwanda
Priti Patel and her
Dog whistle, but the agenda’s his
The question master for a boozy lockdown quiz
The lies are his
The sex pests his
The rule makers breaking rules are his
Corrupt is what it is
Government on behalf of bosses, bankers and billionaires
The people about whom he cares
So wish him bye, bye and farewell
And he can fuck off from there as well
And when he walks, let him keep walking
Don’t ever tune in when he’s talking
Don’t read his books or his columns
Because you were never his problem
He’d let you starve for political gain
And we don’t want to see him round here again
Spaffer and the Pincher
Pincher by name, pincher by nature
Spaffer backed the groper until it hit the paper
Known to be handsy, where’s the hand you can’t see
Spaffer and the groper, wouldn’t you fancy
That they’re two of a kind, of the same mind
An exercise of power with the grasp of a behind
No surprise, therefore, to hear more lies
Complaints about the pincher that Spaffer denies
Ever hearing, but once he’s lied in a knot
Yet again, he’s simply going to say that he forgot
Mare Nostrum, Lebensraum, Got Brexit Done
Mare Nostrum, Lebensraum, Got Brexit Done
Steve Bray’s amplifier nicked on Day One
Mare Nostrum, Lebensraum, Got Brexit Done
Danny Kruger, Prue Leith’s misogynist son
Signposts women’s rights nil, Supreme Court one
Mare Nostrum, Lebensraum, Got Brexit Done
1937 moment reaching for a gun
Uniform lapel pins for everyone
In the Daily Mail, Telegraph, Express and The Sun
Mare Nostrum, Lebensraum, Got Brexit Done
Migrants not refugees is how it’s spun
The Court of Human Rights being prepped to be shunned
As if God was yet another son of Eton
The meek shall inherit their own situation
Mare Nostrum, Lebensraum, Got Brexit Done
Organised labour is enemy number one
I Demand to See the Manager
Someone please bring me the manager of the working class
Some of them have stopped doing exactly what I asked
And they’re forming picket lines that other people won’t pass
So, someone please bring me the manager of the working class
Someone please bring me the manager of the working class
Richard Madeley on the telly said it was someone called Marx
But when I ask who’s in charge they just look at me askance
So, someone please bring me the manager of the working class
Someone please bring me the manager of the working class
Their ability to organise has left one quite aghast
Now they say the time for pay restraint has long since passed
So, someone please bring me the manager of the working class
Someone please bring me the manager of the working class
I’m finding their authority quite difficult to grasp
It’s not that Starmer fellow is it, by any chance?
Won’t someone please bring me the manager of the working class
Transport Secretary Michael Green
Lax Shapps talks crap to media hacks
His attacks collapse when you see the gaps
All he’s got is scraps and chaps, perhaps
The workers could be paid in claps
It’s as obscene
As a pyramid scheme
Sold to you by Michael Green
This Is the Country
This is the country of Grenfell Tower
This is a country of Grenfell towers
This is the country of promises made meant never to be kept
This is the country that prints its own money then says that it’s in debt
This is the country of deportation, transportation, denial, frustration and criminal deregulation
This is the country of imperial measures and roman numerals
This is the country of Westminster weddings and care home funerals
This is the country that locked down late
This is the country that calls itself great
This is the country of hypocrisy parties and poverty safaris
This is the country where a prince sells the Big Issue for a day, hooray
This is a country that thinks it’s at war
This is a country that says it’s at war
This is a country that somehow wants to be at war
This is the country where the vested interests of the proprietor dictate the headlines
This is the country that sells planes and bombs to armies that still use landmines
This is the country of run it down to sell it off
This is the country of the insufferable toff
This is the country of fire and re-hire or fire and hire someone else
This is the country whose only answer is just to tighten your belts
This is the country of misconduct in public office and rising hedge fund profits
This is a country of structural prejudice
This is the country of in-work benefits
This is the country of Hillsborough, Orgreave, justice delayed and justice denied
This is the country where the Prime Minister just lied and lied and lied and lied
This is the country that does its politics in easy three-word bites
This is the country that wants to debate if humans should have rights
This is the country of the hostile environment
This is the country of Grenfell Tower
Fido (And His Escape From Deportation to Rwanda)
They found him on the beach at Dover
But his ordeal was far from over
Checking for food in the bins
Fido was looking quite thin
So they scooped him up and took him to the pound
Left him in the company of other lost hounds
Saying it was definitely for the best
That Fido’s case should be quickly processed
How did he get here? Was it a legal route?
Where is his collar and lead?
Why is it never bitches or puppies?
Did he just throw his tag in the sea?
Is it just ‘cause the bins are better in Dover?
Did he just want a more benevolent owner?
Did he think we’d just hand him a nice marrow bone
And a bed in a new, warm, comfy home?
Fido barked his answers with canine candour
But the decision had been made, he was off to Rwanda
When the story broke, there was outrage
The Daily Mail devoted the whole front page
This is a nation of animal lovers
And we demand that no dog ever suffers
Transportation to a foreign land
On this the paper will make its stand
The Sun, The Express and even The Times
Said that dog deportations were animal crimes
The Prime Minister was forced to agree
Shed a crocodile tear on breakfast TV
Said on dog trafficking we must draw a line
And the Home Secretary was forced to resign
So woe betide the politician who ever forgets
That we measure our compassion by the way we treat our pets
Nasty, British and Short
He’s on the socials
Sweating like a prince
Trying to convince the locals
That a bit more cash would be nice
His lawyer comes at a heavy price
He’s had a bad day in court
Had to admit ripping off his support
He spaffed their dough
In the casino
And on booze and parties
Blues and smarties
Too much of a geezer
To pay for his kids either
Although he’s the beneficiary, apparently
Of his own life insurance policy
If he’s murdered he says he’s worth a million pounds
One day he says he’s worth a mint
Next day he’s saying that he’s skint
It ain’t just the truth
Getting ready for a stretch
He’s had a bad day in court
He’s nasty, British and short
Steve White & The Protest Family 