Work from home if you can work from home
Unless there’s a secret Santa party.
You’ll need a Covid pass if there’s enough folk
But we’re still having Downing Street festives, aren’t we?
Cover your face in public venues
Unless you’re having cheese and wine
And a lateral flow test might suffice
But you were never there’s still the party line.
Rest assured that everyone follows the guidance
At all events that you deny ever happen
And double down in faux outrage
When you see the clip of Allegra Stratton.
Contacts are okay if they test every day,
The Emperor’s new clothes are plain to see:
Don’t do as I do, do as I say,
It’s the 8th day of Advent, here’s Plan B.
Category: poetry
Barbara’s on the Radio
Barbara says it’s none of Nick’s business
Barbara says it’s her personal choice
Barbara’s ringing up the radio
Barbara says both sides need a voice
Barbara’s annoyed that Santa got the vaccine
Barbara’s mad at Tesco’s Christmas ad
Barbara’s ringing up the radio
Barbara thinks that we’ve all been had
Barbara doesn’t wear a seatbelt
Barbara doesn’t always turn the lights on
Barbara’s ringing up the radio
Barbara thinks that the science is wrong
Barbara’s careful what she puts in her body
Barbara’s ringing up to have a go
Barbara’s a bacon-eating anti-vaxxer
And Barbara’s ringing up the radio
Oh, Micron!
Not oh-my-cron, little o
But ommi-cron, I don’t know
Why it should be so, but
The alphabet deflects damnation
From the variant’s home nation
And nu could be confused with new
And xi could be confusing too,
But Johnson called it omnicron
And that is definitely wrong.
Meanwhile Coach JVT
Says we’re picking up injury
And a yellow card or three.
So, to avoid sending offs
With persistent coughs
He’s bringing on the booster shots
And masking up in all the shops
And trains and buses, at the stops
Unlike his cavalier boss.
But transport’s one thing
And shops are another
While pubs and restaurants
Don’t have to bother.
If it’s personal responsibility
What happens in hospitality
Ain’t the fault of their strategy.
“No sir, not us at all!”
When it’s all spaffed up the wall.
Now they’re bringing in the army,
Calling up the volunteers,
Rolling up their sleeves
Like antiviral engineers.
They haven’t cancelled Christmas
(That would be bad for business)
Although there have been whispers.
Not oh micron, but omicron
What could possibly go wrong?
COP26: 5-1 Down at Half-Time and One Minute to Midnight
If it’s 5-1 down at half-time
And one minute to midnight,
Then this metaphorical football match
Is not in Glasgow tonight.
It’s in Russia or Malaysia
Or elsewhere in Asia
Or Western Australia.
And now he’s introduced a Bond-style doomsday device
Are you guessing his advice
Is doomed to failure?
Because COP Number One didn’t get it done,
Nor did COP Number Two (’96 in Geneva).
The Kyoto protocol did pretty much sod all
As a reducing greenhouse gas emission lever.
And that was COP3, COP4 had little clout,
And COPs 5 to 12 did nothing to write home about.
COP 13 said refocus on CO2.
COP 14 said give technology to developing economies
And COP15, in Copenhagen, said that too.
COP16 did little to convince
As CO2 levels have risen ever since,
And the treaty promised by COP17
Was never seen. So much for green.
COP18 in Doha, didn’t get very far,
And COP19 had little clout, when nearly everyone walked out.
COP20 was in Lima, Peru,
And nobody remembers what they resolved to do.
The COP21 Paris Agreement said
Forget CO2, let’s target temperature instead.
COP22 did nothing new,
Nor did COP23, actually,
And COP24 also did no more.
While COP25 in Madrid
Just said and did what the others all said and did.
So, what’s your aspiration for COP26?
With metaphor faffing,
Up the wall spaffing,
Johnson between the sticks.
Jayda’s at It Again
From Glasgow Southside to Southend West,
A crusader, invader of mosques and the rest,
A patriot, self-confessed,
A racist, no less, self-obsessed,
Contests
Elections.
So she can advocate, give weight
And seek a mandate for her hate.
Her will to aggravate and alienate
Does not abate.
It’s gross,
The violent intolerance that she promotes,
In red top quotes,
One hopes
Will get no votes.
[Story here.]
Prince Charles
He still eats meat five days a week
And runs his car on cheese and wine,
Owns two hundred square miles of land
And several droves of rarest swine.
He’s waited on around the clock
On hand and foot and royal cock,
From royal shoe to royal sock
And royal boxer to royal jock.
He married the nation’s sweetheart
Then walked his mate’s wife up the aisle,
He was mates with Jimmy Savile
And his brother is a paedophile.
He still eats meat five days a week
And runs his car on cheese and wine,
Owns homes that thousands of others live in
And lets the rents just climb and climb.
He’s waited on around the clock
On hand and foot and royal cock,
By valets who express no shock
At some duties that most might knock.
His brother is a paedophile
His uncle even worse, it’s said.
He runs his car on cheese and wine;
Like all the rest, off with his head.
The Taliban Have Bought Melchester Rovers
It’s all going to change down at Mel Park;
They haven’t done the double since ’72.
Now next season’s home kit will be all black
And the players will all sport beards too.
‘Cos the Taliban have bought Melchester Rovers,
The Premier League said they’re fit and proper,
The fans trust that they’re guaranteed results,
Or Roy Race’s other foot might come a cropper.
Yes, the Taliban have bought Melchester Rovers,
“It’s not a sportswash,” a spokesperson said,
“To want legitimacy on primetime TV,
You could have had Sports Direct instead.”
Now some of the crowd are on the pitch,
Celebrating the arrival of their new owners,
‘Cos the Premier League said that they’re fit and proper
And the Taliban have bought Melchester Rovers.
The Tory Party Conference Begins
Today’s new word is hecatomb.
He wears these words like a costume
While answering the unasked question,
A simple politician’s deception,
A poorly executed misdirection.
“I hate to break it to you, Andrew,
That it does involve killing a lot of animals.”
The same blithe confidence
Of the grim Covid press conference.
He’ll probably say “Alas,” in a minute.
Elsewhere, Loder hails the return
Of a mythical 1950’s high street.
A collapsing supply chain he discerns
Frees a nation of shopkeepers
From the shackles of the supermarkets
And returns a simpler, and fictional, way of life.
You sense he forgets several owners
Are considerable Tory party donors.
Back to Marr, and the PM’s position:
It was simply the people’s decision.
The crisis in haulage
Never his fault
It’s the industry failing to wonder
The extent of the government’s blunder.
The message of this conference a very simple one
They were never here to fix it, just to get it done.
It’s All Going Toilet Rolls
He’s on pump number two with a jerry can
He’s filled up the missus’ car and his work’s van
He’s not panic buying, he’s a hard-working man
A former bog roll billionaire
‘Cos it’s all going toilet rolls at Esso
And it’s all going toilet rolls at BP
“It’s bad, very bad,” says Hanna Hofer
They’re queuing down the A13
He’s on pump number two with a jerry can
And he’s got three full ones in the van
‘Cos last year’s lesson is this year’s plan
For a bog roll billionaire
And it’s all going toilet rolls at Tesco
It’s all going toilet rolls at Shell
“Carry on as normal,” says Grant Shapps
But he’s filling up his car as well
He’s on pump number two with a jerry can
Saying “It’s not Brexit, it’s Covid, man”
With the all the credibility of a sauna snowman
With the bog roll billionaires
‘Cos it’s all going toilet rolls in Westminster
It’s all going toilet rolls, upstairs
‘Cos a nation divided is a nation ruled
By bog roll billionaires
Carbon Dioxide
We breathe it out, plants breathe it in,
It’s the bubbles in your Tizer.
Carbon dioxide, CO2,
The uses might surprise ya,
Like suffocating pigs and chickens
Before the slaughterhouse knife,
Or modified atmosphere packaging
To make old leaves look nice.
Spaffer’s running out of gas,
Literally and metaphorically,
As Uncle Sam says “Sorry, my man,”
And we face a new fuel poverty.
Now he ain’t got the bubbles to push lager into glasses
Or the heating kind that comes from cows arses,
‘Cos the fertiliser factories get all funny
When they think they won’t make any money.
We breathe it out, plants breathe it in
It’s the bubbles in your Stella Artois
There used to be far too much of it
And campaigns to give up a touch of it
Now there ain’t even enough it,
It’s bizarre.
Steve White & The Protest Family 