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The burning man cries Free Palestine
Perhaps he wasn’t well
Category: poetry
Just Another Day at Elbit
There’s a man in a factory in Leicester
Fixing wings onto military drones
He breaks at eleven for coffee
While they bomb Palestinian homes
She smiles as he hands her a cuppa
Looking up from her targeting grids
She likes it when he brings her coffee
While they shoot Palestinian kids
He waits as she blows it cool gently
And wonders if he should just ask her
What is she doing this Friday
While we watch the destruction of Gaza
There’s a man in a factory in Leicester
Dreaming of romance and love
Through his nine to five military systems
Assembling death from above
Unlucky Street
Phone shop
Vape shop
Chicken shop
Bookies
It used to be so sweet
Now it’s Unlucky Street
High crime
Traffic fine
Sex attacks
And decline
Phone shop
Vape shop
Chicken shop
Bookies
It used to be so sweet
Now it’s Unlucky Street
Fly tipped
Dog shit
County lines
Conflict
High crime
Traffic fine
Sex attacks
And decline
Phone shop
Vape shop
Chicken shop
Bookies
It used to be so sweet
Now it’s Unlucky Street
Front garden sofas
Poverty sarcomas
Everyone you know does
A shrug of the shoulders
At fly tipped
Dog shit
County lines
Conflict
High crime
Traffic fine
Sex attacks
And decline
Phone shop
Vape shop
Chicken shop
Bookies
It used to be so sweet
Now it’s Unlucky Street
Tags in the litter
A mattress in the river
Stand and deliver
Throw up a pigeon’s dinner
On front garden sofas
Poverty sarcomas
Everyone you know does
A shrug of the shoulders
At fly tipped
Dog shit
County lines
Conflict
High crime
Traffic fine
Sex attacks
And decline
Phone shop
Vape shop
Chicken shop
Bookies
It used to be so sweet
Now it’s Unlucky Street
Robbery’s a failure
Antisocial behaviour
Jesus Christ our saviour
Do us all a favour
Tags in the litter
A mattress in the river
Stand and deliver
Throw up a pigeon’s dinner
On front garden sofas
Poverty sarcomas
Everyone you know does
A shrug of the shoulders
At fly tipped
Dog shit
County lines
Conflict
High crime
Traffic fine
Sex attacks
And decline
Phone shop
Vape shop
Chicken shop
Bookies
It used to be so sweet
Now it’s Unlucky Street
Noah
Righteous in his generation
He prays not for the washed away
His brilliant ship built just for him
He curses their decay
This antediluvian patriarch
Looks out just for his own
The animals came in two by two
And Noah drinks alone
Nursery Rhymes
Ring a ring o’ roses
In the land of Moses
Gaza! Gaza!
We all fall down
Nursery Rhymes
Jack Spratt lets the contract
His wife fulfils unseen
From Infosys to Downing Street
They lick the platter clean
St Kitts and Nevis vs Greene King
Much to Catherine and Thomas’ disgust
Benny liked keeping a slave
They thought that abolition was just
He thought they should just behave
In fact, Benny liked keeping slaves so much
He purchased his local paper
And ran articles, polemics and such
About how he’d done slaves a favour
They’re much better clothed
And much better housed
And much better fed
The Herald espoused
Than your average English labour
He’d met Buck in the chapel
And they’d set about brewing beer
For the good, the great and the rabble
Of Bury St Edmunds, in the year
Of Our Lord Eighteen Hundred and Six
Old ale and porter too
And when The Blake’s found themselves in a fix
It was Benny who came through
And said, I’ll manage your plantations
In Monserrat and St Kitts
And many generations of Greenes
Will reap the benefits
His business grew, his chattels too
And though he found trafficking abhorrent
Keeping slaves, he’d happily pursue
As necessity, so he’d warrant
He fought the passage of The Slave Trade Act
Even quoting The Bible on occasion
And by 1833 he’d attract
Libel action, to his frustration
And so, three years later, he was off to the City
Leaving Edward to brew the beer
The compensation for freedom, more’s the pity
Going to Benny, not the slaves, it’s clear
Half a million in today’s money
Is what ol’ Benny got
While the freed slaves, not so lucky
Well, they got not a lot
And the wages on the plantations
That the freed slaves were now making
Never matched the profits or remunerations
That the Greene family were taking
And while Edward was running the brewery
Young Charles went out to St Kitts
Able, but with much tomfoolery
He left behind thirteen kids, the family now admits
All of whom were born illegitimately
As discovered by Sir Hugh Carleton Greene
Himself director of the BBC
And a great-nephew of Charlie Greene
(The novelist, Graeme Greene
Was another who carried the gene)
Now the good folk of St Kitts and Nevis
Frustrated by our government’s hesitation
Have said to Greene King, you owe us this
We demand our reparation
For the slavery days of Benny Greene
The money that he made
4.6 billion in 2019
Once off the backs of slaves
So, put down your pint of IPA
And listen to their tale
There’s more than hops, yeast and barley
In the story of your ale
Refugees’ Luggage
They came with orders
And transporters
Souls with borders
Who are you we’re moving you
Off you go
Tentative roots in a new community
Ripped out fast with the impunity
Of cruelty to the refugee
Being Party policy
Who are you we’re moving you
Off you go
From one uncaring mean hotel
To the next uncaring mean hotel
No pleased as man with man to dwell
No fond farewell
Who are you we’re moving you
Off you go
What you can carry’s what you can bring
What’s left behind you know they’ll sling
Don’t you dare say a fucking thing
Who are you we’re moving you
Off you go
And all that’s left is the refugees’ luggage
That the hotel will throw in the bin
This is England this is right now
These are the fascists that you voted in
Full story here
Unambiguous Shoes
He wears flat-fronted trousers
And unambiguous shoes
He wears a watery stare
His sour breath hints of booze
He doesn’t like your poetry
And he wants you to know
He doesn’t like your words
Your meter or your flow
With prodding finger, spit-fringed lips
His ire is plain to see
It’s not your prodding rhymes
It’s your ideology
He despairs of modern life
But is disinclined to change
He despairs there’s little to be gained
From this ugly exchange
But the poet knows that friction
Makes the sparks that light a fire
And unambiguous shoes
Will just walk his craft higher
Being a Princess Ain’t a Job
On your own is not a mob
Neat and tidy ain’t a slob
A perfect sphere is not a blob (or a glob)
Looking up is not a snob
Shortened Richard isn’t Bob
A sticking plaster ain’t a swab
A bread roll is not a cob*
A single pulse is not a throb
A fast ball is not a lob
Quietly spoken ain’t a gob
Me in it thou shalt not dob
The grill or oven ain’t a hob
The same suit’s king is not his nob
A giggle clearly ain’t a sob
Being a princess ain’t a job
*Yeah, I know