Tommy, Who Told Lies and Ended Up Back in Jail

(With apologies to Hillaire Belloc)

Tommy told such dreadful lies
It made one gasp and stretch one’s eyes

His followers, racist and uncouth
With scant regard for actual truth
Attempted to believe young Tommy
Wanted to keep sending money

And would have done so, had not he
Lied about her Majesty’s
Pleasure when he went to court
Showing off the pack he brought

‘My prison bag’, Tommy proclaimed
But later, as it was explained
At worst, he’d only get a fine
And had invented prison time

The grift exposed, to say the least
But Tommy had not said his piece
‘My lawyer, and I need the best’
‘Needs paying, and I can’t’, he stressed

His fans from near and far dug deep
Knowing counsel won’t come cheap
But were inevitably dismayed
To find that Tom had Legal Aid

One day soon, his time will come
And Tommy this time square undone
When more funds he seeks to acquire
But fascist chums cry ‘Little Liar!’

And he’s sentenced to a lengthy stint
Locked up once more, and also skint

Nasty, British and Short

He’s on the socials
Sweating like a prince
Trying to convince the locals
That a bit more cash would be nice
His lawyer comes at a heavy price

He’s had a bad day in court
Had to admit ripping off his support
He spaffed their dough
In the casino
And on booze and parties
Blues and smarties
Too much of a geezer
To pay for his kids either

Although he’s the beneficiary, apparently
Of his own life insurance policy
If he’s murdered he says he’s worth a million pounds

One day he says he’s worth a mint
Next day he’s saying that he’s skint
It ain’t just the truth
Getting ready for a stretch

He’s had a bad day in court
He’s nasty, British and short

Wanstead Tap

w tap

In front of me is a list of songs that is too long.

Some say that’s a good problem to have, that the converse is worse, but I want to tell a story of a couple embroiled in modern British life under the shadow of Brexit. I want to visit their past and future in happier and sadder songs. I want to sing a pop song about the struggle of our trans comrades. I want to laugh at debate without experts and rage at a system that burns people in their homes. I want to play punk for the animals and tell the tale of a revolution in a small Essex village that grew legs and marched on the capital. I want to mock an institution with its boot still on our necks, and genuinely laud their gardeners.

And I haven’t even started on Little Tommy and his crew.

A bill this good requires compromise, there’s only so much time and some crossing out to do. What gets left behind will get carried over, more on that later.