Where Are You From?

Sir Richard, Knight of the Shire in 1339
Son Richard, Speaker of the House in Richard II’s time
Another Richard, Lord of Bures
Then William, then Edward, the name endures
Another Edward, a baronet
Without a peerage, as high as you get
Then Henry, married the King’s daughter
Then James Waldegrave, sailing back over the water
For a seat in the Lords, mates with the PM
His son James, George II’s best friend
His son William, an admiral, nice one
His son Granville only a vice one
As Britannia ruled the waves
Next was George, the 4th Earl Waldegrave
Who lived at Strawberry Hill
The house is in the family still
George and James were 5th and 6th
The 7th, George, the name still sticks
The 8th another William
With still more Waldegraves to come
He was known as Viscount Chewton
With his land to hunt and shoot on
Succeeded by Henry, who the records tell
Was succeeded by Geoffrey, who married a Grenfell
Whose daughter… yes it must be
It’s Susan, Baroness Hussey
Who knows just what it’s like to belong
And demands to know where you are from

If You Do It to an Ant

I’m a vegan, he said, I hope you’re a vegan too
I don’t like to think of the animals as food
‘Cause if you do it to an ant, you can do it to a fly
Oh my! A fly! He said, just try
And if you do it to a fly, you can do it to a spider
I know this is getting a bit wriggled inside her
But if you do it to a spider, you can do it to a fish
‘Cause fish don’t have any feelings, I wish
And if you do it to a fish, you can do it to a chicken
The Colonel’s tortured millions, they’re finger lickin’
And if you do it to a chicken, you can do it to a cat
Fancy that? A finger lickin’ cat?
And if you do it to a pig, you can do it to a dog
Just another similarly sensitive hog
And if you do it to a cow, you can do it to a horse
A horse? Well, they eat them in France of course
And if you do it to a horse, you can do it to a man
Oh yes, you can, you understand?
That if you do it to a man, you can do it to the planet
Oh
You already did

Some Things Bought by Qatar

Stadia built on blood and bones
A swathe of England’s poshest homes
Hotels too, The Savoy, The Ritz
The Stock Exchange, at least some bits
One Hyde Park, Canary Wharf
The Olympic Village, of course
Heathrow, Harrods and The Shard
Much of Mayfair’s posh backyard
The old American Embassy
The HQ of HSBC
More of London than you-know-who
David Beckham and FIFA too

The Point

There’s a point to this and the point is this
He’s very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very
Very, very, very, very rich

It don’t matter that he’s Hindu, Buddhist, Anglican or Jew
Member of the Church of the Latter Day Dude
He could be an atheist, Taoist or a Jainist
An only-goes-at-Christmas, or a Catholic priest
What matters is he’s very, very, very, very, very, very
Very, very, very, very rich

It don’t matter he’s South Asian, though a nice change from Caucasian
He might as well be Bajan, Filipino or Malaysian
He might as well have landed in an alien space invasion
What matters is he’s very, very, very, very, very, very
Very, very, very, very rich

It don’t matter that his mum ran the local pharmacy
She could have made a living catching fishes in the sea
Or been a minor member of a foreign royalty
Or the woman at a non-league football club that makes the tea
What matters is he’s very, very, very, very, very, very
Very, very, very, very rich

It don’t matter how much money Boris Johnson’s got
Or the size of Liz Truss’s 44-day pension pot
He’s the Prime Minister and thankfully they’re not
And like them he’s very, very, very, very, very, very
Very, very, very, very rich

It matters that he’s very, very rich
Because he presides over policies which
Scratch the greediest of greediest itch
And at poverty doesn’t so much flinch or twitch
And that’s the pitch that for a decade or more
The biggest growth is the gap between the rich and the poor
Knock, knock, there’s a landlord at your door
As the own-you-own-homing middle class
Reliable elbows to the Tories’ arse
Are soon becoming a thing of the past….

There’s a point to this and the point is this
He’s very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very
Very, very, very, very rich

102 Supporters (Yeah, Right)

Like Brent turning up at the office
With a guitar they don’t want to hear
All together now, let’s restart the disco
Has fallen on deaf Tory ears
He came back from holiday to die for their sins
But the MP’s would rather he stayed in the bin
Let’s restart the disco, all together now
Cincinnatus, best you fuck off back to your plough

Untitled (20 October 2022)

If you think Theresa was the sensible one
Just remember the hostile environment, son
And if you think Boris ain’t as bad as this
Then you’ve forgotten the bottomless
Pit of his corruption
The meetings with spies and the lies upon lies
And the party, what party, oh that party, somebody should’ve said it was a party
To be sure, he broke the law
Meanwhile Liz turned up
Fucked up, fucked off
An impressive comic economic Molotov


Now the field’s wide open for more of the same
Hunt rhymes too easily
Shapps ain’t a hundred percent sure of his name
And when Penny was at fire
She’s on record as a liar
So, there’s nothing to recommend here
Except Project Have No Fear
It’s time to smash it up and start again

I Do Not Want a King at All

I do not want a king at all
A coronation big or small
A diddy one or six feet tall
I do not want a king at all

I do not want one in a crown
Or in an ermine-trimmed posh gown
Right way up or upside down
As a verb or as a noun
Called Charles or Harold, even Saul
I do not want a king at all

I do not want a king at all
With neat handwriting or a scrawl
I want to click on uninstall
I do not want a king at all

I do not want a king for me
For breakfast, dinner, lunch and tea
Owning all the eye can see
By some historical decree
I do not want a jubilee
Or forced smile RP repartee
“How long have you been a tree?”
On broken glass I’d rather crawl
I do not want a king at all

I do not want one with fat fingers
Or with a royal stench than lingers
From royal floaters or royal sinkers
I do not want a king that tinkers
In London or in Montreal
I do not want a king at all

I do not want one with big ears
I do not need “Oh dear, oh dears”
Or a face that now appears
On stamps and coins and souvenirs
Who hunts foxes and shoots deers
Assents to laws and interferes
Has his toothpaste squeezed by Paul
I do not want a king at all

I do not want a king at all
Don’t want his picture on the wall
Or naming a new hospital
One of forty, after all
He can’t be big unless we’re small
I do not want a king at all

If Squid Squad Did Train Strikes

Emily Arr rearranges trains. Ross Conti relies
on reductions and Mandy Waistcoat’s
abandoned her calendar.

Great Aunt Angela torches timetables. Gray
Norman won’t run in the morning. Tim Slink
thinks updates can wait.

Southey Stern returns a recipe for necessity.
People with tickets take biscuits to pickets.
Liz Truss isn’t fussed.

(With apologies to Matthew Welton)

Growing Pies

Growing pies, is it on trees
Or on stakes like beans and peas
Or hedgerows, just like blackberries
For us to pick whene’er we please

Or do the pies only thrive
In the shade of money trees
I wonder, will the pies survive
The discontent of winter freeze

Maybe we just dig them up
When they have grown sufficient size
And roughly slice and serve them up
With mashed potatoes or with fries

Green-fingered Britain, do not fret
There is no need to agonise
To Liz’s garden we’re in debt
We just need to grow some pies

Suella & Rachel

Suella dreams of deportation
Traffic to another nation
Cruelty to refugees
Her obsession, how did we
Ever end up here?

Rachel waiting in the wings
Hums the tune Suella sings
Cruelty to refugees
Shadow policy with speed
Don’t ever end up here