Category: poetry

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.

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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

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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.

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Politics For People Who Don’t Do Politics

There’s politics for people who do politics
And politics for people who don’t do politics,
And the politics for people who don’t do politics
Hides behind the politics for people who do politics
Who say “You all need to understand the politics”
To people who say “It’s all the same, the politics”
While the politics is laughing in their face,
And ripping off their money to give it to their mates
Who are having a great time riding rockets into space.
Meanwhile, the politics for people who do politics
Gets all excited by the kerfuffle
Of a cabinet reshuffle,
While the people who don’t do politics exclaim
“It doesn’t matter they’re all the same.”
And they might just have a point.
Because while the people who do politics scream
“Oh no, Nadine”, or even Nadhim,
The politics for people who don’t do politics
Has them on their knees,
Fails to manage the disease,
Increases taxes by degrees,
Is killing off the bees,
Says daft things about cheese,
And wants to go to war with the Chinese.
So, the people who do politics
Should understand the politics for people who do politics
Puts off the people who don’t do politics
From the politics for people that don’t do politics
That’s doing them.

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Nikki Minaj’s Cousin’s Friend’s Testicles

Nikki Minaj’s cousin’s friend’s testicles
Swole up from the vaccine she claims
And his bride-to-be glum
With the size of his plums
Shot down their wedding in flames

Nikki Minaj’s cousin’s friend’s testicles
Shining stars of her anti-vax Tweets
As they increased in size
Oversaw the demise
Of his prowess between the sheets

Nikki Minaj’s cousin’s friend’s testicles
His poor swollen Castor and Pollux
But Professor Chris
When asked about this
Said it’s all undoubtedly bollocks

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You Can’t Take a Chicken By Surprise

You can’t take a chicken by surprise, James
You can’t take a chicken by surprise
Nick don’t care how it dies
Nick just likes chicken pies
And you can’t take a chicken by surprise

You can’t eat your burger in peace, James
You can’t eat your burger in peace
Although Nick loves the grease
Of the recently deceased
You can’t eat your burger in peace

You can’t take your mother to the vets, Ed
You can’t take your mother to the vets
They might be great with pets
But the BMA regrets
That you can’t take your mother to the vets

You can’t take a chicken by surprise, James
You can’t take a chicken by surprise
You might deny their demise
As food supply compromise
But you can’t take a chicken by surprise

If you were listening to LBC today, you may have heard James O’Brien’s, admittedly unfinished, debate about the relative sentience of cows and chickens as justification for the various methods of their slaughter for food. Earlier, Nick Ferrari was comfortable not really caring how the chicken died so long as he could eat it.

Later on, the conversation in Eddie Mair’s show turned to assisted dying with a caller bemoaning that we treat terminally ill humans worse than we treat their pets.

Maybe someone should tell the chickens.

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Father Michael

Father Michael only liked liturgical music
But he never shot a folk singer in the head
Even when atheist lyric and rhyme
Where enough to make a man of god see red.
Meanwhile north of Kabul,
The Taliban
Shot an Afghan man
For singing songs they consider haram.

Father Michael only liked liturgical music
And insisted it was on the curriculum
But at least he wanted girls as well as boys
To understand the music of Christendom.
Meanwhile in the USA,
The Texas pro-lifers, they say
Are hitting women’s rights harder than
That other mob in Afghanistan.

Father Michael only like liturgical music
But he thought shooting folk singers was a sin.
He never pronounced on the war on terror
I suspect it was never expected of him,
But on the issue of abortion
He’d have exercised some caution
And while decrying the Afghan Taliban coup
Would wonder when the Texans would start shooting folk singers too.

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The War on Terror

The Colonel’s run out of chickens
And Ronald’s run out of shakes
Joe’s run away from the War On Terror
Without admitting anyone’s mistakes.
Now the media’s full of armchair experts
And actual experts like Professor Glees
(Although not an expert on the Middle East)
Talking like Forever War high priests.
Because the quickest way to transfer money
From public purse to shareholder value
Is to start a war in a foreign country
And tell ‘em you’re installing democracy too,
Then roll your eyes and blame ISIS
For the inevitable refugee crisis.
Don’t forget that Ben Wallace, MP
Was the overseas director of an arms company
And Blair’s advice never comes for free
With his current interests in the UAE.
From a botched Libyan intervention
To WMD’s we never mention
The war on a concept’s turned a pretty penny
For the few at the expense of the very many.
But now the Colonel’s run out of chickens
And Ronald’s run out of shakes
Joe’s run away from the War On Terror
And the mess an imperialist adventure makes.

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Euro 2020

A beaming Kier Starmer is beamed into our homes
Wearing an England top stitched by children in export processing zones,
And who’s that posing by an England flag? Why it’s Owen Jones.
It’s amazing what winning and taking the knee can do,
Even Priti’s forgotten that she’d rather boo
And that seems to go for her boss too
With his England shirt worn over his clothes.

Keep the politicians out of football, but not the politics,
‘Cos it’s hard not to love a team that’s anti-racist
And not afraid to make the boo boys face it.
Who’ll speak truth to power and use their position
Like Marcus, leader of the opposition,
Got Spaffer to cough up on child nutrition.
If there’s a righteous pass then they’re gonna chase it.

So, Lee Anderson can go unpack a box
And take that wanker with him, Laurence Fox.
In fact, all the politician bandwagon jumpers
Who would never normally know their Arse from their Spurs
Or their O’s from their Bees
Can watch at home on TV
While our players take the knee,
Because just sticking to football ain’t the aim
And Black Lives Matter in the People’s Game.

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Cyanide Sid Cooper

He’d punch his opponent
Though punching weren’t allowed
He’d wind up the ref
And he’d wind up the crowd
In his black leotard that only had one strap
You knew you were in for a bit of a scrap
Because his wrestling shenanigans should’ve got him banned
And God help you if you tried to shake his outstretched hand
‘Cos dirty Sid came from Dirty Leeds
Filling your Saturday teatime with dirty deeds
Picking up public warnings for fun
He’d often find himself undone
By two falls, two submissions or a knockout
‘Cos rules really weren’t what he was about
But now it’s goodnight grapple fans from Cyanide Sid
At the end of a heel’s life well lived
With a twisted smile as he’d twist a limb.
If only Spaffer were as honest as him

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