Tag: poetry

Back in the Day

Back in the day, there were no foodbanks
And no such thing as a mobile phone
You had to walk to find a phone box
If you needed to make a call home
They had rotary dials, could be left off the hook
And if you couldn’t remember the number
You had to look it up in the book

Back in the day, there were no foodbanks
And you recorded the telly on VHS
You mum went shopping in BHS
(She still could, I guess)
Woolworths and C&A
And you took pictures on photographic film
That had to be sent away

Back in the day, there were no food banks
We had the cold war, miners strikes, and Reaganomics
Jim Davidson and Bernard Manning
And a load of other old racist comics
Who smelled of Old Spice, Denim and Brut
We had endless summertime Seaside Special
And James Galway on the flute

Back in the day, there were no food banks
And pubs still had a cigarette machine
The nit nurse used to come to the school
And we all needed to have a TB vaccine
Which was better than getting the cane
Which, if you were enough trouble,
Could happen again and again and again

Back in the day, there were no food banks
And prawn cocktail was haute cuisine
With black forest gateau for pudding
But only If your main course plate was clean
And there was only one Chinese takeaway
Who’d put your dinner in a minicab
So long as you promised to pay

Back in the day there were no food banks
And everyone remembered the war
You used different key to start the car
From the one that opened the door
You never knew what would go wrong next
And if you needed to transfer money
You had to do it by writing cheques

Back in the day, there were no food banks

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Barbara’s on the Radio

Barbara says it’s none of Nick’s business
Barbara says it’s her personal choice
Barbara’s ringing up the radio
Barbara says both sides need a voice

Barbara’s annoyed that Santa got the vaccine
Barbara’s mad at Tesco’s Christmas ad
Barbara’s ringing up the radio
Barbara thinks that we’ve all been had

Barbara doesn’t wear a seatbelt
Barbara doesn’t always turn the lights on
Barbara’s ringing up the radio
Barbara thinks that the science is wrong

Barbara’s careful what she puts in her body
Barbara’s ringing up to have a go
Barbara’s a bacon-eating anti-vaxxer
And Barbara’s ringing up the radio

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Oh, Micron!

Not oh-my-cron, little o
But ommi-cron, I don’t know
Why it should be so, but
The alphabet deflects damnation
From the variant’s home nation
And nu could be confused with new
And xi could be confusing too,
But Johnson called it omnicron
And that is definitely wrong.

Meanwhile Coach JVT
Says we’re picking up injury
And a yellow card or three.
So, to avoid sending offs
With persistent coughs
He’s bringing on the booster shots
And masking up in all the shops
And trains and buses, at the stops
Unlike his cavalier boss.

But transport’s one thing
And shops are another
While pubs and restaurants
Don’t have to bother.
If it’s personal responsibility
What happens in hospitality
Ain’t the fault of their strategy.
“No sir, not us at all!”
When it’s all spaffed up the wall.

Now they’re bringing in the army,
Calling up the volunteers,
Rolling up their sleeves
Like antiviral engineers.
They haven’t cancelled Christmas
(That would be bad for business)
Although there have been whispers.
Not oh micron, but omicron
What could possibly go wrong?

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COP26: 5-1 Down at Half-Time and One Minute to Midnight

If it’s 5-1 down at half-time
And one minute to midnight,
Then this metaphorical football match
Is not in Glasgow tonight.
It’s in Russia or Malaysia
Or elsewhere in Asia
Or Western Australia.
And now he’s introduced a Bond-style doomsday device
Are you guessing his advice
Is doomed to failure?
Because COP Number One didn’t get it done,
Nor did COP Number Two (’96 in Geneva).
The Kyoto protocol did pretty much sod all
As a reducing greenhouse gas emission lever.
And that was COP3, COP4 had little clout,
And COPs 5 to 12 did nothing to write home about.
COP 13 said refocus on CO2.
COP 14 said give technology to developing economies
And COP15, in Copenhagen, said that too.
COP16 did little to convince
As CO2 levels have risen ever since,
And the treaty promised by COP17
Was never seen. So much for green.
COP18 in Doha, didn’t get very far,
And COP19 had little clout, when nearly everyone walked out.
COP20 was in Lima, Peru,
And nobody remembers what they resolved to do.
The COP21 Paris Agreement said
Forget CO2, let’s target temperature instead.
COP22 did nothing new,
Nor did COP23, actually,
And COP24 also did no more.
While COP25 in Madrid
Just said and did what the others all said and did.
So, what’s your aspiration for COP26?
With metaphor faffing,
Up the wall spaffing,
Johnson between the sticks.

Source: http://www.brind.blog/20211024.html

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Jayda’s at It Again

From Glasgow Southside to Southend West,
A crusader, invader of mosques and the rest,
A patriot, self-confessed,
A racist, no less, self-obsessed,
Contests
Elections.
So she can advocate, give weight
And seek a mandate for her hate.
Her will to aggravate and alienate
Does not abate.
It’s gross,
The violent intolerance that she promotes,
In red top quotes,
One hopes
Will get no votes.

[Story here.]

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Prince Charles

He still eats meat five days a week
And runs his car on cheese and wine,
Owns two hundred square miles of land
And several droves of rarest swine.
He’s waited on around the clock
On hand and foot and royal cock,
From royal shoe to royal sock
And royal boxer to royal jock.
He married the nation’s sweetheart
Then walked his mate’s wife up the aisle,
He was mates with Jimmy Savile
And his brother is a paedophile.

He still eats meat five days a week
And runs his car on cheese and wine,
Owns homes that thousands of others live in
And lets the rents just climb and climb.
He’s waited on around the clock
On hand and foot and royal cock,
By valets who express no shock
At some duties that most might knock.
His brother is a paedophile
His uncle even worse, it’s said.
He runs his car on cheese and wine;
Like all the rest, off with his head.

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The Taliban Have Bought Melchester Rovers

It’s all going to change down at Mel Park;
They haven’t done the double since ’72.
Now next season’s home kit will be all black
And the players will all sport beards too.

‘Cos the Taliban have bought Melchester Rovers,
The Premier League said they’re fit and proper,
The fans trust that they’re guaranteed results,
Or Roy Race’s other foot might come a cropper.

Yes, the Taliban have bought Melchester Rovers,
“It’s not a sportswash,” a spokesperson said,
“To want legitimacy on primetime TV,
You could have had Sports Direct instead.”

Now some of the crowd are on the pitch,
Celebrating the arrival of their new owners,
‘Cos the Premier League said that they’re fit and proper
And the Taliban have bought Melchester Rovers.

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It’s All Going Toilet Rolls

He’s on pump number two with a jerry can
He’s filled up the missus’ car and his work’s van
He’s not panic buying, he’s a hard-working man
A former bog roll billionaire

‘Cos it’s all going toilet rolls at Esso
And it’s all going toilet rolls at BP
“It’s bad, very bad,” says Hanna Hofer
They’re queuing down the A13

He’s on pump number two with a jerry can
And he’s got three full ones in the van
‘Cos last year’s lesson is this year’s plan
For a bog roll billionaire

And it’s all going toilet rolls at Tesco
It’s all going toilet rolls at Shell
“Carry on as normal,” says Grant Shapps
But he’s filling up his car as well

He’s on pump number two with a jerry can
Saying “It’s not Brexit, it’s Covid, man”
With the all the credibility of a sauna snowman
With the bog roll billionaires

‘Cos it’s all going toilet rolls in Westminster
It’s all going toilet rolls, upstairs
‘Cos a nation divided is a nation ruled
By bog roll billionaires

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Carbon Dioxide

We breathe it out, plants breathe it in,
It’s the bubbles in your Tizer.
Carbon dioxide, CO2,
The uses might surprise ya,
Like suffocating pigs and chickens
Before the slaughterhouse knife,
Or modified atmosphere packaging
To make old leaves look nice.
Spaffer’s running out of gas,
Literally and metaphorically,
As Uncle Sam says “Sorry, my man,”
And we face a new fuel poverty.
Now he ain’t got the bubbles to push lager into glasses
Or the heating kind that comes from cows arses,
‘Cos the fertiliser factories get all funny
When they think they won’t make any money.
We breathe it out, plants breathe it in
It’s the bubbles in your Stella Artois
There used to be far too much of it
And campaigns to give up a touch of it
Now there ain’t even enough it,
It’s bizarre.

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Politics For People Who Don’t Do Politics

There’s politics for people who do politics
And politics for people who don’t do politics,
And the politics for people who don’t do politics
Hides behind the politics for people who do politics
Who say “You all need to understand the politics”
To people who say “It’s all the same, the politics”
While the politics is laughing in their face,
And ripping off their money to give it to their mates
Who are having a great time riding rockets into space.
Meanwhile, the politics for people who do politics
Gets all excited by the kerfuffle
Of a cabinet reshuffle,
While the people who don’t do politics exclaim
“It doesn’t matter they’re all the same.”
And they might just have a point.
Because while the people who do politics scream
“Oh no, Nadine”, or even Nadhim,
The politics for people who don’t do politics
Has them on their knees,
Fails to manage the disease,
Increases taxes by degrees,
Is killing off the bees,
Says daft things about cheese,
And wants to go to war with the Chinese.
So, the people who do politics
Should understand the politics for people who do politics
Puts off the people who don’t do politics
From the politics for people that don’t do politics
That’s doing them.

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