Ryan is the kind of bloke
Who likes to big-up billionaires
While casting round for scapegoats
For the parlous state of his affairs
Himself a failed entrepreneur
His start-ups all had dodgy names
Set up, it seems, to make quick cash
Off moody compensation claims
So, when the far-right bandwagon
Hoved into view
I’ll have some of that, he thought
I’ll make a bob or two
And deal with the devil duly struck
With ladder, zip-tie, hired truck
He fixed to decorate the land
One lamppost at a time
With the cheapest union flags
That he could find online
His motley crew no strangers
To violent crime and Amazon Prime
His partner in this enterprise
New to work at height
Ran a sex doll business
Where you could rent one for the night
Who knows if it was Covid,
Latex fatigue, or rust
But nobody expressed surprise
When the company went bust
Tits-up, deflated, not much cop
These days he runs a tanning shop
While Ryan’s old firm, they report
Still awaits its day in court
Much like the man himself
For various offences
Now asking flag-flyers to fund
His own legal expenses
Like former comrade Tommo
Heels cooling on remand
Since they fell out on a French beach
Over chains of command
And master grifter Robinson
Who’ll never miss a chance
To part a racist from their dough
And he weren’t even in France
Instead, the king of fat jab fash
Is asking his fan base for cash
To spend while he’s in jail
For bullying the Daily Mail
Meanwhile, Ryan and his goons
Can’t get served in Gosport ‘Spoons
They must hate poppies he declares
Like Tim Martin really cares
While wearing one the scalpers sell
That doesn’t help the RBL
Announcing to the coppers on the door
That patriotic pouting should be law
And his little Raise the Colours Reich
Were exercising human rights
To walk into any pub they like
The absolute state of it, right?
Because Ryan is the type of bloke
Who likes to big-up billionaires
While casting round for scapegoats
For the parlous state of his affairs
Tag: poetry
Apocalypse Shopping
Andy says get water
Angie says get wine
Andy says get plasters
Angie says that’s fine
Though maybe she misheard him
Three days’ worth should do
Perhaps another bottle then
And tins of custard too
Andy says get prepping
Oh, if you insist
But tell me, what’s on your
Apocalypse shopping list
The Nobel Prize
There’s a global prize for peace
A noble prize some say at least
Although Alfred’s better known for dynamite
Every year, he gets a wash
With prizes funded by his dosh
To put the blowing people up a bit right
“I want it,” Donald roars
“I’ve ended maybe eight wars”
“And FIFA made one specially for me”
Like he can invade Venezuela
And just pick the prize up later
Kissinger got one, after all, in ‘73
But the committee, I suppose
(Although no one really knows)
Won’t succumb to Donny’s bribery or threats
But if this poem is a clue
That there’s a prize for poets too
Neither of us, I suspect, is worth your bets
Soap On A Rope
Here comes Cool Uncle Andy
He likes football and beer
So, chuck your plastic lager in the air now, lads
Cool Uncle Andy’s here
And all the talk on the radio
Is he shouldn’t have worn those shorts, oh no
The chat on the sofa in the studio
Cool Uncle Andy’s runners, oh
Cool Uncle Andy
Says you’ve gotta have hope
Cool Uncle Andy’s
Soap on a rope
Here comes Cool Uncle Andy
Cool Uncle Andy’s game
But at the bar of the New Austerity Inn
The round he buys is just the same
And all the talk on the radio
Is he shouldn’t have worn those shorts, oh no
The chat on the sofa in the studio
Cool Uncle Andy’s runners, oh
Cool Uncle Andy
Says you’ve gotta have hope
Cool Uncle Andy’s
Soap on a rope
Cool Uncle Andy’s
Soap on a rope
Yes, But Who Is Danny Tommo?
The publicly Christian
privately fascist
ex-public schoolboy
knife in his fist
is a failed kidnapper
failed The Hussars
throws steroid tantrums
drives borrowed cars
and we are told
fourteen years ago
a failure who pissed himself
in Walthamstow
Spilling Racists’ Coffee/Getting Ready For The War
Spilling racists’ coffee
Getting ready for the war
I heard they banned the action
Couldn’t stand them any more
While Donald Trump sends prison ships
To the Straits of Hormuz
The buzzing of the drones
Drowns out the words he can’t defuse
And voices on my radio
Ask who will pay for this
The politicians answer
Take the benefits
Off boys in balaclavas
Shocking shoppers in the town
And absent dads masked up in ports
To shut the lifeboats down
Or feckless old folk triple-locked
They say we can’t afford
While pandering to donors
Who hide all theirs abroad
Spilling racists’ coffee
Rupert screeching it’s so wrong
He wants to ban the protests
But he’d never ban the bomb
That don’t fit the story
Where he says that he’ll restore
An imaginary Britain
Getting ready for the war
Drunk on Blitz spirit
When they lied about their age
Trapped in algorithms
Grifting on their rage
An attack by boiling liquid
Melted snowflakes in the street
Spilling racists’ coffee
Hear them bleating in retreat
Save your outrage mate
There’s a real war on its way
That just how the maths works
When there’s shareholders to pay
Spilling racists’ coffee
Milkshaken to the core
Just waiting for an Archduke
Getting ready for the war
Frogface Is Missing
We don’t hear him on the radio
We don’t see him on TV
It’s got us all a-wondering
Where might old Frogface be?
He won’t ring Nick Ferrari
He’s a Question Time absentee
If he’s out there drinking Chablis
It ain’t in Clacton-on-Sea
Is he hiding out with young Posh George
Or in Cryptoland with Chris?
For someone so ubiquitous
Something must be amiss
His office said ‘He’s working from home’
But didn’t say which one
The speculation’s rising
That Frogface might be done
The Toilet Police
The Tolpuddle Martyrs
