Tag: boris johnson

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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Jason and Joanna: Vaccine Wars

Joanna was waiting for a text from the surgery
Jason got a message that there was some going free
The end of the day, or it would be thrown away
Jason said that vaccine is mine

Jason got the Pfizer, she’ll probably get the Oxford one
His was from Germany, Joanna’s will be homespun
She heard side effects affect nearly everyone
Jason, however, was fine

And she’s mad that he kept the vaccine to himself
For richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health
Now they’re ramping up the rhetoric, nuclear arms
There getting ready for a vaccine war

Jason shrugged, said it’s all about your contacts
It’s nothing personal you’ve got to watch your own back
You’ll get yours soon enough, I don’t understand the fuss
It’s the one thing he thinks he got right

Joanna thought the deal was to be in it together
Last year it was her warning him of heavy weather
He’s got everything wrong, now he’s coming on strong
It looks like there’s gonna be a fight

And she’s mad that he kept the vaccine to himself
For richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health
Now they’re ramping up the rhetoric, nuclear arms
There getting ready for a vaccine war

She said no man is an island, I just don’t get it
It’s not like you to tell the world to just forget it
You think you’re the best but you’re gonna regret it
I don’t understand this at all

There’s no point being alone in your immunity
You might call it a herd but it’s actually community
Not a competition at every opportunity
Jason, you’re building a wall
Jason, you’re building a wall

And she’s mad that he kept the vaccine to himself
For richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health
Now they’re ramping up the rhetoric, nuclear arms
There getting ready for a vaccine war
And she’s mad that he kept the vaccine to himself
For richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health
Now they’re ramping up the rhetoric, nuclear arms
There getting ready for a vaccine war
There getting ready for a vaccine war

by Categories: COVID-19, Lyrics, SteveTags: , , , , , , , , , , , 2 Comments

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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Keith Likes It

Spaffer’s got a roadmap
And Keith likes it
A hearty virtual backslap
‘Cos Keith likes it

It’s cautious and irreversible
And Keith likes it
It’s economically purposeful
But educationally unworkable
And Keith likes it

When it comes to dealing with disease
Keith will always aim to please
Even if you’re on your knees
Keith will always say what he sees
And Keith likes it

Keith likes it
Keith likes it
Keith likes it
Keith likes it
Keith likes it

Matt’s got money for his mates
And Keith likes it
Despite the legal mess that it makes
Keith likes it

Priti is waving her flag
And Keith likes it
It’s a look at my patriotism brag
That plays well in the daily rag
And Keith likes it

When it comes to dealing with disease
Keith will always aim to please
Even if you’re on your knees
Keith will always say what he sees
And Keith likes it

Keith likes it
Keith likes it
Keith likes it
Keith likes it
Keith likes it

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One Zero Zero, Zero Zero Zero

There’s blood on the hands of Boris Johnson
Blood on the hands of Dominic Cummings
Blood on the hands of Therese Coffey
Who says that we’re all to blame

There’s blood on the hands of Matt Hancock
Blood on the hands of Dominic Raab
Blood on the hands of Boris Johnson
For whom it’s always been a game

If most of the people follow most of the rules
Most of the rules most of the time
When the rule makers blame the rule breakers
Whose is the greater crime?

One zero zero
Zero zero zero
He’s sticking firmly to his line
On mistakes, now is not the time

There’s blood on the hands of Boris Johnson
Blood on the hands of Priti Patel
Blood on the hands of Gavin Williamson
And Duncan Smith’s hands as well

If most of the people follow most of the rules
Most of the rules most of the time
When the rule makers blame the rule breakers
Whose is the greater crime?

One zero zero
Zero zero zero
He’s sticking firmly to his line
On mistakes, now is not the time

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Right Bullets, Wrong Gun

The right bullets fired from the wrong gun
Will miss their target one by one
There’s only one sharp shot in a Johnson
Now we’ve got the right bullets
In the wrong gun

When the truth as you tell it changes
From sunrise to sunset
When definitely safe means definitely not safe
This is the recoil that you’ll get
And you’re not as persuasive
As your Latin teacher told ya
And you’re relying on a fair wind
To get you that far
When no one believes you know
The what or the how
Not even JVT
Can help you now

The right bullets fired from the wrong gun
Missing their targets one by one
There’s only one sharp shot in a Johnson
It’s the right bullets
In the wrong gun

Don’t say
We are where we are
We are where we are, we are where we are
Where are we?
We are where we are
We are where we are, we are where we are
Don’t say where are we?

When the truth as you tell it changes
From speech to speech and ear to ear
When definitely safe means definitely not safe
This is the recoil that you fear
And you’re not as persuasive
As your Latin teacher told ya
And you’re relying on a fair wind
To get you that far
When no one believes you know
The what or the how
Not even JVT
Can help you now

The right bullets fired from the wrong gun
Missing their targets one by one
There’s only one sharp shot in a Johnson
It’s the right bullets
Fired by the wrong gun

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‘Tis the Season to be Jolly Careful

We stream supporterless football
And pass punterless pubs
In tearful tiers
Over clubberless clubs

Now the variant’s British
And tranmission’s enhanced
Making quarantined skiers
Scarper home via France

The taxis are starving
Ambulances sated
Your Christmas tree’s wilted
And Santa’s deflated

We’ve got troublesome bubbles
With persistent coughs
While Boxing Day hunts
Ride with law-breaking toffs

“Christmas must be saved
Like St. Pauls, at all cost”
A spaffed exhaltation
Fingers firmly crossed

‘Tis the season to be
In tiers four, two and three
‘Tis the season to be
Jolly careful

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The Golden-Haired Boy

It’s that awkward bit between Christmas and New Year when you’d struggle to find things to fill newspapers with anyway, never mind the pandemic, so one of the leading lights of the Tory press, riffing on the idea of Spaffer’s miracles following his rising from the near dead at Easter, publishes a story about his latest offspring’s wonderous artistic ability. Well, it is Christmas, and a story so preposterous that they couldn’t get a journalist to put their name to it.

It’s the Xmas perineum between the 25th and the 31st
You’ve eaten, drunk and been merry ‘til your fit to burst
There’s no football, no music, no pubs in Tier 4
Not much to do if you step out of your door

Is there anything to look forward to that ain’t austere?

Well, the golden-haired boy, just eight months old
The golden-haired boy, just eight months old
The golden-haired boy, just eight months old
Crafted a hand-painted image
Of a reindeer
Of a reindeer

There’s Driver Tizer lining the hedgerows of the Garden of England
British Variant COVID making its presence felt, and
Miles and miles of queues to get into Dover
Thousands of truckers wishing Christmas was over

Is there any news to help Tories be of good cheer?

Well, there’s a golden-haired boy, just eight months old
There’s a golden-haired boy, just eight months old
There’s a golden-haired boy, just eight months old
Who crafted a hand-painted image
Of a reindeer
Of a reindeer

‘Cos Spaffer might’ve nearly died for your sins
But it’s his miracle child that’s now the thing
With The Telegraph fawning over his painting
He’s clearly the one born to be king

This golden-haired boy, just eight months old
This golden-haired boy, just eight months old
(What number is he again?)
This golden-haired boy, just eight months old
Crafted a hand-painted miracle image
Hand-painted, miracle image
Of a reindeer
Of a reindeer

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Blue Passport Fishing

Gunships, fish and chips
Protecting no-deal Brexits
But the fish don’t care
If you think they’re Brits
The fish don’t care
To be served with chips
See that little bastard swimming in the sea
That little bastard belongs to me
(He’s got a blue passport)
See that little bastard swimming in the sea
That little bastard belongs to me
(He’s got a blue passport)

Gunboats, keeping Spaffer afloat
Strong man nationalist
Someone get him
A Stone Island coat
It’s quote very very likely
Unquote
See that little bastard swimming in the sea
That little bastard belongs to me
(He’s got a blue passport)
See that little bastard swimming in the sea
That little bastard belongs to me
(He’s got a blue passport)

And the plucky little fisherman ain’t all he seems
There’s corporate interest behind the scenes
(And a blue passport)

Gunships, fish and chips
Protecting no-deal Brexits
But the fish don’t care
If you think they’re Brits
The fish don’t care
To be served with chips
See that little bastard swimming in the sea
That little bastard belongs to me
(He’s got a blue passport)
See that little bastard swimming in the sea
That little bastard belongs to me
(He’s got a blue passport)

And the plucky little fisherman ain’t all he seems
There’s corporate interest behind the scenes
Ask about the quotas, you’ll see what I mean
(And a blue passport)

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Cummings, Cain and Princess Nut-Nut

Get out, he said, and never come back
Take your box out of the front door
No sneakin’ out the back
You might’ve got Brexit done
But now you’re getting’ the tin tack
There’s the road to Barnard Castle
I suggest you hit it, Jack

Now Spaffer’s back in self-isolation
With Carrie and Baby Wilf
She doesn’t need to text him ten times a day
Now she’s got him all to herself
He’s phoning in the bluff and bluster
From a comfy sofa in number 10
Arms-length prime ministering, no surprise
We’ve been there once, now we’re doing it again

Get out of here and never come back
Is what I hear he said to Lee Cain
But apparently money’s already changin’ hands
That it won’t be long ‘til he’s back again
Too close to Cummings, too close to home
Don’t say “Princess Nut-Nut” when you’re not alone
‘Cos it might not be such a laugh
When the boss de-blokes the backroom staff

Now Spaffer’s back in self-isolation
With Carrie and Baby Wilf
She doesn’t need to text him ten times a day
Now she’s got him all to herself
He’s phoning in the bluff and bluster
From a comfy sofa in number 10
Arms-length prime ministering, no surprise
They’ll just have to wheel Matt Hancock out again

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