Category: poetry

The right bullets miss,
Fired from the wrong gun,
When getting it done
Is just a slogan,
While the Tories are taking the piss,
‘Cos my postie’s being bullied by Iain Duncan Smith
While Jacob only cares about happy Brexit fish.
Priti says nothing, set to rhyme;
For Maxine and Henry, it’s vaccine time
While Dido spaffs a million pounds a day,
Every day.
And while “Now is not the time,” is the schtick,
The blood on Johnson’s hands reaches one hundred thousand thick

More sleaze exposures of Tory donors
’Cos when you say, “Pandemic” they say, “Profit”,
If there’s a healthcare contract,
Their mates have got it,
Makes you want to vomit.
And the deaths of heroes and friends brings it all home.
Air Miles Andy takes flight,
Spaffer reveals a roadmap for Keith to like,
And, aware of the cost,
Van Tam warns a 3-0 game is there to be lost.

Space rockets, Mars Bar economics,
Stalker Morgan stomping off the telly,
The opening salvos in the vaccine wars,
Where Jason’s ready, and Joanna’s not ready.
And Johnson says capital and greed
Are all your vaccine rollout needs,
Keeping a compliant nation in check
With clapping, silences, flags and respect,
And despite racial disparity and affairs again,
Marks his own homework: ten out of ten.
This tactic of just telling whoppers
Also adopted by the Clapham vigil coppers.

The wrong fox ran for Mayor.
A Harrods Tommy Robinson,
Didn’t get far, to be fair,
And ducks in the fountain at Trafalgar Square
Don’t care who’s the statue up there.
Lauded for bravery,
Blind to the slavery.
A racist old man pops his clogs
And were supposed to mourn because
His missus wears a million-pound hat
And owns that, and that, and that, and that,
While the leader of the country cries
“Let the bodies pile high”.

In Chingford they prefer Priti Patel
To a refugee from a war-torn land.
At least in Glasgow Southside
Jayda Fransen had to talk to the hand.
The Queen sanctions Parliament to carry on shrugging
As the PM cautiously sanctions hugging.
So, when all this is over
And we’re mourning our family and friends,
We’re gonna build a statue of Boris Johnson
And chuck it straight in the Thames.

Hancock walks
When he gets caught
Snogging his bird
When it should have occurred
That in an environment so parliamentary
There’s bound to be some CCTV,
And someone will leak it while his hand’s off the tiller
Because they won’t forget that he’s the Care Home Killer,
While Southgate shows what leadership should be
As his Euro 2020 team take the knee.

Eat out to help out:
Well, that went well
Wear a mask without being asked, and don’t lose your sense of smell.
New rules for pubs but it never gets rammed
In the New Rose and Crown, the pub of the damned.
Derek won’t wear one, he’d rather be dead,
And Cassie wears a G-string on her face instead.
A trip to Oxford Circus for a plasma donation,
A Covid threat to the cats of this nation,
And Jason, never brave,
Scans the horizon for a second wave.

Still singing in August
And trying to understand
What just happened in Afghanistan,
While at home the mess that Brexit makes
Means there no milk for shakes
And no chicken for your tea
If you’re the type that likes them fried in a KFC.
(Personally, that’s not for me
To feast on the grease
Of the recently deceased).

If you’re a woman and a Texan
The control of your own body ban
Makes your rights are as poor as in Taliban Afghanistan.
Meanwhile, in our own nation,
You can get a CBE for a substantial donation.
The levers of the machine that you must lube
Being operated by the squeezer of Charlie’s toothpaste tube.
And chat show hosts are talking bollocks,
And Nikki Minaj is talking bollocks,
Carbon dioxide makers are despondent
And Phil McCann’s a fuel crisis correspondent.
It’s all going toilet rolls again.
So, if you’re looking for a world that’s fair
You’ll need to understand that there’s no halfway there.

Butcher Johnson, sometime author,
Counsels Marr on porcine slaughter.
Says, “I hate to break it to you,”
“Andrew”,
“That pigs must die to be your food”.
Misunderstanding, deliberately,
That there’s no bacon for his tea
Because the workers in the abattoir,
Most recruited from afar,
Alas, have stayed at home.
While Prince Charles, himself the owner of swine,
Runs his posh car on cheese and wine.
The Saudis buy Newcastle,
No sportswash here,
The sovereign wealth fund’s
Intentions seem clear.
Yeah, right.
Jayda will try it on again,
This time in Southend.
Let’s hope the Essex voter sees through
Her racist hate in ’22.
And while Johnson talks shit at COP26
It’s the shitting in rivers voting that sticks.

And Batman’s just a violent capitalist, right?

Omicron, a new Greek letter
Makes you a cougher and a sweater,
May take ten days til you get better,
May take more, may take lesser,
A milder form, Delta’s successor,
But try not to end up in a hospital bed,
Or dead,
Because Johnson, feeling Christmas party shame,
Is playing a different game,
Not just to Drakeford, who seems wiser,
But to his own chief advisor,
Who says, “Stay safe”, while Johnson ‘s business
Is not to cancel another Christmas.
The “Party, what party? Oh, that party” thing
And a Lib Dem swing give another kicking
To his credibility and authority
From which not even producing more offspring
Can deflect.
And when football and darts fans take your name in vain,
Inevitably profane,
It’s calling time on this insufferable toff.
Bye, bye,
Farewell,
Fuck off.

(This blog post is also available as a podcast)