Tag: politics

The Emperor’s New Clothes

A cloth so fine I’ll weave for you
The great and good can only view
The likes of which you’ve never seen
And best of all the suit is free

You’ll have clothes like no one else
The best of everything he sells
The people they will never see
And best of all, the suit is free

Meet the new boss, same as the old boss
Wearing the same invisible cloth

The people look, the people stare
From Clacton to Trafalgar Square
The people look, the people stare
But they all know there’s nothing there

The bobbin span, the shuttle flew
The sick, he said, have work to do
The finest cloth is meant for me
And best of all, the suit is free

The finest cloth on the machine
Though there was nothing to be seen
No marvel that his eye could see
But nonetheless the suit was free

Meet the new boss, same as the old boss
Meet the new boss, same as the old boss
Wearing the same invisible cloth

The people look, the people stare
From Clacton to Trafalgar Square
The people look, the people stare
But they all know there’s nothing there

Tough choices, did he have the spine
To say I see no cloth so fine
The cloth the great and good could see
But best of all the suit was free

Tough choices, but you know the rest
The cloth, he said, was of the best
The cloth the great and good could see
But best of all the suit was free

Meet the new boss, same as the old boss
Meet the new boss, same as the old boss
Meet the new boss, same as the old boss
Wearing the same invisible cloth

The people look, the people stare
From Clacton to Trafalgar Square
The people look, the people stare
But they all know there’s nothing there

The people look, the people stare
From Clacton to Trafalgar Square
The people look, the people stare
But they all know there’s nothing there

They all know the king is bare

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Sir Kier’s New Clothes

A cloth so beautiful, he said
I’ll weave for you, Sir Kier
That to the simple or unfit
Invisible ‘t will appear

These splendid clothes, I just must have
What do they cost, pray tell
To you it’s free, the Baron said
‘N’ I’ll dress your wife as well

He set up looms and set to work
Weaving night and day
And yet the golden thread they brought
He simply put away

Kier sent a spad to view the cloth
It’s gorgeous, he announced
Seeing nothing, but for fear
That he might be denounced

His Chief of Staff gave equal praise
Lest she be seen unfit
The most magnificent I’ve seen
Was all she dared submit

And so, Sir Kier came to view
This cloth beyond compare
The best design I ever wove
The Baron did declare

It surely is, Sir Kier agreed
Though there was nowt to see
Neither simple nor unfit
Could he be seen to be

So pleased he seemed that no one dared
To baulk or disagree
And the Baron was rewarded
With a Westminster Palace key

He sewed all night by candlelight
His scissors keen and steady
Cut unseen cloth, and as dawn broke
He cried, Kier’s suit is ready

Your trousers, he presented
Your jacket and your tie
So light, like wearing nothing
Oh, how splendid, the reply

Upon the people, he processed
How beautiful, they cooed
And not a soul dared suggest
Sir Kier was in the nude

Until a child’s voice, young Owen
The crowd all heard his call
Sir Kier, I declare is wearing
Not a thing at all

Listen to the child, they said
Sir Kier’s glamour gone
But there was nothing for it
So, he, naked, just marched on

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PMQ’s in His Underpants

Kier’s half-naked and freezing
There is no budget for clothes
PMQ’s in his underpants
And even his wife bought those

Nobody thought to tell him
There’s no shirts on the public purse
You need a rich donor for clothing
Or it’s just boxers or worse

Kier’s half-naked and freezing
Because of the bribe he ignored
PMQ’s in his underpants
It’s all the clothes we can afford

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Pickles

Dickens might’ve written him
The people ain’t forgiven him
And here he is
Large as lives
Blunt as knives
Doesn’t care who lives or dies
Has important meetings
And you’re keeping him from eating
He’s only gonna give you up ‘til lunch

Dickens might’ve written him
Cameron permitted him
And here he is
Large as death
Of wicked heft
Foul contempt upon his breath
Too important to be here
Which he’s making very clear
You’ll not stop him leaving for his lunch

Dickens might’ve written him
The truth has still not bitten him
And here he is
Large as prayers
Cold as cares
Dare scrutinise his affairs
His shield of importance
Bearing dents from this performance
Looks like he’s gonna have to miss his lunch

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Pickles

Pickles is late for his lunch
As his tummy rumbling
Testy testimony testifies
He doesn’t really care who dies
It’s a numbers game
With minions to blame
And so long as business
Can do business
Unimpeded by the need
To keep folk safe
From corporate greed
He’ll be grand
Baron, as he is
Of this green and pleasant land

Pickles is late for his lunch
And he doesn’t care
For this line, laying bare
His disregard for public safety
When the job’s to shrink the state
He’s totally on board
The reward
A seat in the Lords
Where there’s Wednesday prayers
For billionaires

Pickles is late for his lunch
And ready to bail
He’s late for his tucker
Let’s chuck the fucker
In jail

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Where is the Joy?

Cold pensioners applauding
A pay rise for His Majesty
Smoke outdoor cigarettes
Where their local used to be

They share their coughs with cows
Busy trampling the corpses
Of a million culled badgers
Who never were their causes

The Britpop feelgood factor’s
Now a website bound to crash
Get your tits out rock ‘n’ roll
Is waiting for your cash

Where is the joy, they ask
Of booting out the Tories
It’s just a different face
On the same old hard luck stories

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Things Are Gonna Get Worse

His look defiant, his words are terse
Things are gonna get worse
He’s got bad news for the public purse
Things are gonna get worse
There’s cuts that he will not reverse
A line which he will not traverse
He’s economically risk averse
Things are gonna get worse

For hopes and dreams, he’s called a hearse
Things are gonna get worse
Bad news doctor, bad news nurse
Things are gonna get worse
There’s multinationals to reimburse
Shareholder dividends to disburse
A billionaire’s laughter is a curse
Things are gonna get worse

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Doing Time For Nigel

Derek Drummond, 58
Punched a copper in the face
Stole some bricks and threw them straight
He’s doing time for Nigel

Declan Geiran joined the fight
Tried to set a van alight
Admitted arson, as you might
He’s doing time for Nigel

John O’Malley, 43
Helped destroy the library
Now he’s under lock and key
He’s doing time for Nigel

William Morgan, 69
Brought a cosh with crime in mind
His next few years are well defined
He’s doing time for Nigel

England ‘til I die, they cried
With Little Tommy as their guide
Now they’ve got a bit inside
They’re doing time for Nigel

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Cold Sausage Rolls

His nan died in a hospital corridor
His mum says her UC’s a ‘mare
He’s stuck for life in the box room
No girlfriend will wanna come there

He’s scrawled across the middle of a Cross of St. George
In marker, Stop The Boats
He’s been told for so long that’s the answer
A three-word bid for votes

He’s doing the windows, he’s lighting a fire
Chucking bricks at police patrols
He’s marking the murder of three little girls
With a tray of cold sausage rolls

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Untitled (5 August 2024)

It’s happy hour in The New Austerity Inn
And there’s still fighting in town
You can’t have it if you can’t afford it
Rachel doubles down
But two for the price of one
When you ain’t got the price of one
Ain’t helping anyone
And it’s not like she can just print money

It was just the same with George behind the jump
Gets a wry nod from the snug
Now there was a fella with no idea
Of how to run a pub

I spoke to a man who said he was a patriot
But he didn’t like the country much
He said he wasn’t a racist, but
And we really didn’t get past the but
Because he was retweeting Robinson
And Nigel Fucking Farage
A burning hotel in Rotherham
And rioters at large

Sweeping up with a hangover
I hear he got a sympathetic ear
From Nick Ferrari on LBC
GB News and Talk TV

Another bloke said well what do you expect
When people ain’t got a thing
There’s a burning police car outside
And it’s happy hour
In The New Austerity Inn

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