Over eighty thousand people died
Or under four hundred according to Paul
Who doesn’t count the over-60’s at all
Or anyone with a pre-existing condition
Like asthma, diabetes or hypertension
Or maybe just walking with a limp.
(You can check out the numbers for yourself here).
My postie’s being bullied by Iain Duncan Smith
With his smug face and folded arms
On posters showing all his charmless DWP-ness
And shaming sick statistics,
A careless Tory trick which
Doesn’t mention COVID at all.
A deliberate omission
From a man in his position.
“43% are absent from work” he cries
To his allies
About workers they despise
Though, in truth, deserving of a pay rise
For tireless work on the pandemic front line
Getting your mail to you on time,
Because when it’s not just a touch of the ‘flu
Post every other day will do.
So, I am righteously miffed
That my postie’s being bullied by Iain Duncan Smith
Henry Hooray Huntingdon Hunter
Pretends to no one it’s a trail hunt
With his pinks and his horse and his Boxing Day booze
He’s got the horn for a bit of sport
“I say, fine day” for folk of his sort
Julia Hooray Huntingdon Hunter
Would rather be a supporter
Her and her daughter
4×4 around
Checking out the hounds
And the horseback clowns
Terry the terrierman
Keeps his dogs in a box
Next to shovels and spades
Used to dig out a fox
King of the quad bike
A doffer of caps
Not the nicest of chaps
Sebastian, field secretary
The collector of subs
From the killers of foxes
And murderers of cubs
Rides at the rear
Prefers the hilltop scene
Likes to imagine that his hands are clean
Walter whips-in
For Henry Hooray Huntsman
Summoned to trouble shoot
By Henry Hooray’s horn
He’s paid to spot foxes
He’s paid to control hounds
To keep them out of the neighbours’
Gardens and grounds
But when called to explain
A fox ripped limb from limb
It was never anything to do with him
Inspector Carl Copper
See nothing wrong here
A country pursuit
That the locals hold dear
If there’s a breach of the peace
It’s not that of the fox’s
And he’ll brook no disruption
Or interruption
Of Henry Hooray Huntingdon Hunter’s day out
Today or any other day
He’ll just say “go away”
The hunt saboteur
Recognises them all
Julia Follower
Henry Hooray’s hunting call
Terry the terrierman
With his dogs in a box
Walter whipping-in
Denying chasing a fox
Sebastian the secretary
Who never gets near
And Inspector Ineffective
Who will see nothing here
So when you’ve finished the tofurkey
Tucked the last mince pie away
The sabs will still have work to do
On Boxing Day
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
Behave as if you have the virus, they said.
So, I went back to bed.
They said,
Work from home if you can work from home.
So, I got my work on the phone
And said,
I’ve got the virus
Because they said
Behave as if you have the virus
And if I had the virus
I’d be certain to tell my work on the phone
Who then sent everyone else home,
Because they clearly hadn’t been
Behaving as if they had the virus
Well enough.
All my friends read the Mail Online
They may not want to, but they do
And share sections on their Facebook pages
For friends and followers to view
Here’s an illustrated menu
Home grown versus imported grub
A celebration of toast and chips
Or lobster at the Brexit Club
You can stuff your avocado
And your broccoli and tomato
We’ll have eggs with milk and mutton with scotch
After taking back control
Yes, all my friends read the Mail Online
Like 11 million other folks do
‘Cos it helps them set the news to rhyme
While bidding their breakfast “adieu”
Gove, a hearty trencherman he
Would never accept a scotch egg for his tea
“Two’s a starter!” he would exclaim
When Good Morning Britain called him to explain
But Eustice, a man of lesser appetite
When challenged by Ferrari said that he might
Be tempted to see the tier two appeal
Of a single scotch egg as a substantial meal
And so it came to be in a later edition
The Chancellor of the Dutchy of Lancaster’s position
U-turned, like the worst of the government’s fools
He did not, but said that the pubs knew the rules
Gentle folk of England, such is the fate
Of your taverns and inns, by glass and by plate
Decided by men who can’t even agree
On a simple scotch egg for lunch, dinner or tea
Last night’s TV: Coach JVT
Discussing the psychology
Of match-deciding penalties
Score your first, said Coach Van Tam
And know that you can beat your man
The match ain’t won but you know you can
Last night’s TV: JVT brings news to cheer you up
Avoiding carefully the thing that’s never added up:
Why play-off final winners get to lift a cup
This ship is lost at sea
And Spaffer’s wearing the captain’s hat
He needed help with the charts
But he was never interested in all of that
He simply expected to point
And somehow the ship would just go that way
He always figured the details
Could wait for another day
Now this ship is lost at sea
And the crew are hungry and tired
Because it turned out to be the hat, not the ship
That Spaffer truly desired
Six tier one folks can still meet inside
It’s the tier where the science and the politics collide
Where the rule of six guide stands ready for the slide
Over to the hundred in one hundred thousand side
So, we’re standing on the precipice of tier two
Sadiq says that it’s coming very soon
But I’ve got people to see and things to do
While COVID’s turning the screw
Meanwhile there’s a new slogan in tier three
Where you can’t have a pint except with your tea
It’s like Tim Wetherspoon’s writing policy:
Hands. Face. Pasty (and chips).
Steve White & The Protest Family 