Stadia built on blood and bones
A swathe of England’s poshest homes
Hotels too, The Savoy, The Ritz
The Stock Exchange, at least some bits
One Hyde Park, Canary Wharf
The Olympic Village, of course
Heathrow, Harrods and The Shard
Much of Mayfair’s posh backyard
The old American Embassy
The HQ of HSBC
More of London than you-know-who
David Beckham and FIFA too
Category: poetry
Silence
You only get a silence if you die gloriously
You only get a silence if you die victoriously
No silence if you died on the losing side
No silence if you’re just a PTSD suicide
No silence for civilians killed in Afghanistan
No silence for the victims of Little Boy or Fat Man
It’s written in the theme tune, who should be surprised
Happy and glorious, send him victorious
In service of the King, it’s the only way to die
The Point
There’s a point to this and the point is this
He’s very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very
Very, very, very, very rich
It don’t matter that he’s Hindu, Buddhist, Anglican or Jew
Member of the Church of the Latter Day Dude
He could be an atheist, Taoist or a Jainist
An only-goes-at-Christmas, or a Catholic priest
What matters is he’s very, very, very, very, very, very
Very, very, very, very rich
It don’t matter he’s South Asian, though a nice change from Caucasian
He might as well be Bajan, Filipino or Malaysian
He might as well have landed in an alien space invasion
What matters is he’s very, very, very, very, very, very
Very, very, very, very rich
It don’t matter that his mum ran the local pharmacy
She could have made a living catching fishes in the sea
Or been a minor member of a foreign royalty
Or the woman at a non-league football club that makes the tea
What matters is he’s very, very, very, very, very, very
Very, very, very, very rich
It don’t matter how much money Boris Johnson’s got
Or the size of Liz Truss’s 44-day pension pot
He’s the Prime Minister and thankfully they’re not
And like them he’s very, very, very, very, very, very
Very, very, very, very rich
It matters that he’s very, very rich
Because he presides over policies which
Scratch the greediest of greediest itch
And at poverty doesn’t so much flinch or twitch
And that’s the pitch that for a decade or more
The biggest growth is the gap between the rich and the poor
Knock, knock, there’s a landlord at your door
As the own-you-own-homing middle class
Reliable elbows to the Tories’ arse
Are soon becoming a thing of the past….
There’s a point to this and the point is this
He’s very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very
Very, very, very, very rich
102 Supporters (Yeah, Right)
Like Brent turning up at the office
With a guitar they don’t want to hear
All together now, let’s restart the disco
Has fallen on deaf Tory ears
He came back from holiday to die for their sins
But the MP’s would rather he stayed in the bin
Let’s restart the disco, all together now
Cincinnatus, best you fuck off back to your plough
I Do Not Want a King at All
I do not want a king at all
A coronation big or small
A diddy one or six feet tall
I do not want a king at all
I do not want one in a crown
Or in an ermine-trimmed posh gown
Right way up or upside down
As a verb or as a noun
Called Charles or Harold, even Saul
I do not want a king at all
I do not want a king at all
With neat handwriting or a scrawl
I want to click on uninstall
I do not want a king at all
I do not want a king for me
For breakfast, dinner, lunch and tea
Owning all the eye can see
By some historical decree
I do not want a jubilee
Or forced smile RP repartee
“How long have you been a tree?”
On broken glass I’d rather crawl
I do not want a king at all
I do not want one with fat fingers
Or with a royal stench than lingers
From royal floaters or royal sinkers
I do not want a king that tinkers
In London or in Montreal
I do not want a king at all
I do not want one with big ears
I do not need “Oh dear, oh dears”
Or a face that now appears
On stamps and coins and souvenirs
Who hunts foxes and shoots deers
Assents to laws and interferes
Has his toothpaste squeezed by Paul
I do not want a king at all
I do not want a king at all
Don’t want his picture on the wall
Or naming a new hospital
One of forty, after all
He can’t be big unless we’re small
I do not want a king at all
If Squid Squad Did Train Strikes
Emily Arr rearranges trains. Ross Conti relies
on reductions and Mandy Waistcoat’s
abandoned her calendar.
Great Aunt Angela torches timetables. Gray
Norman won’t run in the morning. Tim Slink
thinks updates can wait.
Southey Stern returns a recipe for necessity.
People with tickets take biscuits to pickets.
Liz Truss isn’t fussed.
(With apologies to Matthew Welton)
Growing Pies
Growing pies, is it on trees
Or on stakes like beans and peas
Or hedgerows, just like blackberries
For us to pick whene’er we please
Or do the pies only thrive
In the shade of money trees
I wonder, will the pies survive
The discontent of winter freeze
Maybe we just dig them up
When they have grown sufficient size
And roughly slice and serve them up
With mashed potatoes or with fries
Green-fingered Britain, do not fret
There is no need to agonise
To Liz’s garden we’re in debt
We just need to grow some pies
Suella & Rachel
Suella dreams of deportation
Traffic to another nation
Cruelty to refugees
Her obsession, how did we
Ever end up here?
Rachel waiting in the wings
Hums the tune Suella sings
Cruelty to refugees
Shadow policy with speed
Don’t ever end up here
Truss’s Conference
She hit the ground
Forgot to run
Squeezed families
And banged the dumb
The lady’s not for
Oh, she did
On crazy Kwasi’s
Top rate quid
(Not his fault either
That’s Chris Philp
It’s to the Chief Sec
That they tilt)
Now benefits
And mortgages
Got one of those
Ain’t you Liz?
The lady’s not for
Oh, she’s done
She hit the ground
Forgot to run
Liz’s Pie
Liz’s pie is sliced unevenly
Liz is slicing fast and greedily
The biggest slices unbelievably
To the richest irretrievably
Liz’s pie is sliced unevenly
Liz is slicing hard and grievously
The slimmest slices butchered evilly
To those who need them most appreciably
Liz’s pie is sliced unevenly
Equality is not for her you see
Liz trusts in trickle-down unreasonably
So Liz’s pie is sliced unevenly
Steve White & The Protest Family 