Category: poetry

The State of the Opening of Parliament

She’s in the Daimler, not the gold carriage of state,
While the million-pound hat is in separate freight,
Pulling in through the Westminster palace gate.
It’s Black Rod’s big day out.

Where they always slam the door in her face
Before she bangs it thrice with her staff (not her mace)
To summon the Commons to the other place
To hear what this term’s all about.

These days, the crown’s heavy on the royal head
So, it’s relegated to a cushion instead
While the Queen’s speech sets out the year ahead
And new laws for those hereabout.

My Lords, she says, and you commoner lot,
My government would like to buy me a yacht,
But while the pandemic remains a blot
They’d best leave that bit out.

So, my government (led by that chap with the hair)
Will promise that the recovery’s fair,
While remaining silent on the social care
They reckon you can do without.

And my government’s Procurement Bill
Will make their contracts easier still
For the likes of Hancock’s mates to fulfil
When they’re in need of a handout.

My government will not require
Employers to desist from fire and rehire.
It’s enough to make a prince perspire,
The stuff that they’ve left out.

The state of the opening of Parliament
Where the Queen sets out Spaffer’s intent
In the gaps between what’s said and what’s meant.
It’s Black Rod’s big day out.

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Chingford residents News

“They’re a different type of immigrant,” says Jean,
“They’re not here to graft, to care, to cook or clean.”
“They’re smuggled here for profit,”
“And someone ought to stop it.”
“Our tiny island’s full,” she vents her spleen.

And Barbara chimes, “They’re all illegal too.”
“Not behaving like the genuine ones would do.”
“We don’t want the ones like these,”
“In their virus-ridden dinghies.”
Her vote, you guess, is a Priti, Tory blue.

The hardened hearts of Chingford all refer,
To the Mail Online and Johnson’s veiled slur
On London’s current mayor,
Makes you wonder and despair
What type of immigrant they think his parents were.

And if you really must read the article in the Mail Online….

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An Old Man Dies

The woman in the million-pound hat
Lost her husband.
I’m sure she’s sad about that.
I mean,
He started courting her
When she was thirteen.
Thirteen?!
Well, it was different then,
Men could be men,
And have fascist chums,
And shoot tigers with guns.
And wealth and privilege allowed him
To not grow up with the world around him,
Which he toured, by yacht and by jet
Being racist to many of the folk he met
Who won’t be sorry that his race is run
And won’t be tuning in to BBC1.

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Capitalism and Greed

“We’ll make fortunes, I bet,” Capitalism said.
“Agreed,” said Greed.
“At every step there’ll be a contract to be let.”
“Let them to me,” said Greed.
“I’ve no experience of health or PPE,
But I’ll make big donation to the Tory party.”
“Let’s make a Covid killing,” Capitalism said.
And Greed agreed.

“The usual arrangement?” Capitalism said.
“Agreed,” said Greed.
“Obscure procurement rules unashamedly bent?”
“Sounds good to me,” said Greed.
“Don’t worry if we make a mess,
We’ll just make out that it was the NHS.”
“Let’s make a Covid killing,” Capitalism said.
And Greed agreed.

“They’ve already laid the ground,” Capitalism said.
“Just what we need,” said Greed.
“To make a pretty penny off a pandemic pound.”
“They’re just like me,” said Greed.
“A bag of rocks in a suit with a mop on the top
Will help make sure that we profit from the lot.”
“Let’s make a Covid killing,” Capitalism said.
And Greed agreed.

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A Minute’s Silence

A minute’s silence, a Union Jack,
A press conference, a doorstep clap.
A doorstep clap, a Union Jack
A press conference, a road map.
A road map, a Union Jack
A how many vaccines today recap.
A vaccine recap, a Union Jack
A minute’s silence, a doorstep clap.
A doorstep clap, a vaccine recap,
A minute’s silence, a Union Jack;
Won’t bring all those people back.

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The Princess and the Presenter

Promoting her show bought her a stalker
A breakfast programme professional talker
Who’d say “Not all men” while just the sort
Who’d hack kids’ phones and not get caught
Thought he should have a princess, by right
On account of being rich, male and white
But she married her prince and left him a frog
And his mid-life crush, a one-sided dialogue
As she quite rightly saw fit to ignore
His emails, text messages and more


But Hell hath no fury like the male gaze scorned
And he’d met Epstein, she should’ve been warned
That the gutter press is his dominion
And trial in the court of public opinion
His stock in trade, where he took up arms
To do her reputation just as much harm
As he could, thinking only of himself
While claiming she was lying about her mental health
A step too far for ITV
As he parted company with GMB


But just wait for the “I’ve been cancelled” cry
As he gives his career another try
On a new opinion-led news station
Serving blinkered news to a blinkered nation
Where opinion is often fuelled by hate
And despite the facts given equal weight
Where like minds will give the airtime
To his “She ghosted me” incel whine
So, prepare to boycott that news organ
And let’s have a curfew for Piers Morgan


(There’s a lot of him about)

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Something’s Got to Change

If not all men are rapists
And not all whites are racists
Why’s the loudest shouting out
Far too much of what about
And not enough of something’s got to change?

Because if not all men are rapists
And not all whites are racist
Then they should actually say this
That some of us are racists
And some of us are rapists
And something round here has got to change.

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A Trip to Mars

You can buy a trip to Mars
With three billion Mars bars
But Dido does a million and a half a day
On her defective track and trace,
That’s enough for every homeless person in the UK
To eat six Mars bars a day.
But if the corporations paid their tax
The homeless would have to give some Mars bars back,
‘Cos they wouldn’t be able to take away
Nearly six hundred bars a day.
In fact, take the tax from the corporate trousers
And just build chocolate and nougat houses.
By the time you got to the 28th
They’d could all live on a Mars bar estate,
Somewhere out in Essex
That they could nibble on if they’re peckish.

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Clap a Tory, Pay a Nurse

Week after week
They clapped their hands
And banged their pans
From rainbow bedecked windows
And cars and vans.
Hundreds of thousands
Acting with care, thought, and precision
Led to this decision.
“The NHS saved my life” Spaffer said
But what he meant
Was all they’re worth to him is one percent.

And Hancock,
Responsible personally
To the horse racing fraternity,
Pays tribute with words,
His deep pockets reserved
For contracts for corporate chums.
“Get out there and tell them you saved lives” he said
But what he meant
Was all they’re worth to him is one percent.

Nadine “I’m a former nurse, me” Dorries,
The first Covid MP,
Seeks to defend the economy.
Never surprised
By an MP’s pay rise,
But with Rishi is in accord
That this is all they can afford
While recognising sacrifice, commitment and vocation
Tells the nation
What she meant
Was all they’re worth to her is one percent.

When they tell you “level up”
What do they mean?
The numbers dead hid behind
A vaccination screen.
No money for heroic nurses’ pay
When Dido’s folly costs a million pounds a day.
There is a simple message delivered in this verse:
Next time, clap a Tory, pay a nurse.

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