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.
Category: poetry
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.
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.
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
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.
Steve White & The Protest Family 