Cough Away

We’ve been in this pandemic a year or more
Cough away boys, cough away
A global pandemic from shore to shore
Cough away boys, cough away

Cough away, cough away
Cough away boys, cough away
Cough away, cough away
This was all she had to say

Governments respond very differently
Cough away boys, cough away
Based on the fact society
Cough away boys, cough away

We’ve seen just deaths around the world
Cough away boys, cough away
Harrowing death tolls around the world
Cough away boys, cough away

We let the scientists and medics guide us
Cough away boys, cough away
So there’s no single reason for you to chide us
Cough away boys, cough away

The numbers are deeply tragic
Cough away boys, cough away
But it’s still a global pandemic
Cough away boys, cough away

You know in the future we’ll all look back
Cough away boys, cough away
At the could haves the should haves we can’t take back
Cough away boys, cough away

If you think this is a speech with nothing to say
Cough away boys, cough away
It was Priti Patel just the other day
Cough away boys, cough away

According to Paul

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

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

Right Bullets, Wrong Gun

The right bullets fired from the wrong gun
Will miss their target one by one
There’s only one sharp shot in a Johnson
Now we’ve got the right bullets
In the wrong gun

When the truth as you tell it changes
From sunrise to sunset
When definitely safe means definitely not safe
This is the recoil that you’ll get
And you’re not as persuasive
As your Latin teacher told ya
And you’re relying on a fair wind
To get you that far
When no one believes you know
The what or the how
Not even JVT
Can help you now

The right bullets fired from the wrong gun
Missing their targets one by one
There’s only one sharp shot in a Johnson
It’s the right bullets
In the wrong gun

Don’t say
We are where we are
We are where we are, we are where we are
Where are we?
We are where we are
We are where we are, we are where we are
Don’t say where are we?

When the truth as you tell it changes
From speech to speech and ear to ear
When definitely safe means definitely not safe
This is the recoil that you fear
And you’re not as persuasive
As your Latin teacher told ya
And you’re relying on a fair wind
To get you that far
When no one believes you know
The what or the how
Not even JVT
Can help you now

The right bullets fired from the wrong gun
Missing their targets one by one
There’s only one sharp shot in a Johnson
It’s the right bullets
Fired by the wrong gun

Boxing Day

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

‘Tis the Season to be Jolly Careful

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

The Golden-Haired Boy

It’s that awkward bit between Christmas and New Year when you’d struggle to find things to fill newspapers with anyway, never mind the pandemic, so one of the leading lights of the Tory press, riffing on the idea of Spaffer’s miracles following his rising from the near dead at Easter, publishes a story about his latest offspring’s wonderous artistic ability. Well, it is Christmas, and a story so preposterous that they couldn’t get a journalist to put their name to it.

It’s the Xmas perineum between the 25th and the 31st
You’ve eaten, drunk and been merry ‘til your fit to burst
There’s no football, no music, no pubs in Tier 4
Not much to do if you step out of your door

Is there anything to look forward to that ain’t austere?

Well, the golden-haired boy, just eight months old
The golden-haired boy, just eight months old
The golden-haired boy, just eight months old
Crafted a hand-painted image
Of a reindeer
Of a reindeer

There’s Driver Tizer lining the hedgerows of the Garden of England
British Variant COVID making its presence felt, and
Miles and miles of queues to get into Dover
Thousands of truckers wishing Christmas was over

Is there any news to help Tories be of good cheer?

Well, there’s a golden-haired boy, just eight months old
There’s a golden-haired boy, just eight months old
There’s a golden-haired boy, just eight months old
Who crafted a hand-painted image
Of a reindeer
Of a reindeer

‘Cos Spaffer might’ve nearly died for your sins
But it’s his miracle child that’s now the thing
With The Telegraph fawning over his painting
He’s clearly the one born to be king

This golden-haired boy, just eight months old
This golden-haired boy, just eight months old
(What number is he again?)
This golden-haired boy, just eight months old
Crafted a hand-painted miracle image
Hand-painted, miracle image
Of a reindeer
Of a reindeer

Behave as if You Have the Virus

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.

An Eyeful of Nose

Emma was cold and went shopping for clothes
The heating was broken and she nearly froze
But deficient face coverings wherever she goes
Meant all Emma got was an eyeful of nose

An eyeful of nose, an eyeful of nose
All Emma got was an eyeful of nose
An eyeful of nose, an eyeful of nose
Emma see noses wherever she goes

She went to the market for blankets and throws
Cheaper than fixing the boiler I s’pose
But the trader had bad bits of his face exposed
And all Emma got was an eyeful of nose

An eyeful of nose, an eyeful of nose
All Emma got was an eyeful of nose
An eyeful of nose, an eyeful of nose
Emma see noses wherever she goes

She went to the gym for a downward dog pose
Lots of exposed knees and elbows
In communal areas, face covering’s imposed
But all Emma got was an eyeful of nose

An eyeful of nose, an eyeful of nose
All Emma got was an eyeful of nose
An eyeful of nose, an eyeful of nose
Emma see noses wherever she goes

She went to the florist to buy a nice rose
To cheer up her cold flat and brighten shadows
But the florist’s mask was part in repose
And all Emma got was an eyeful of nose

An eyeful of nose, an eyeful of nose
All Emma got was an eyeful of nose
An eyeful of nose, an eyeful of nose
Emma see noses wherever she goes

Past the fire station at the crossroads
The firefighters were out practising with their hose
With facemasks left off to talk on radios
All Emma got was an eyeful of nose

An eyeful of nose, an eyeful of nose
All Emma got was an eyeful of nose
An eyeful of nose, an eyeful of nose
Emma see noses wherever she goes

She sat on a bench, this rhyme to compose
She’s always preferred a poem to prose
A little tale of face cover ratios
And the day all she got was an eyeful of nose

An eyeful of nose, an eyeful of nose
All Emma got was an eyeful of nose
An eyeful of nose, an eyeful of nose
Emma see noses wherever she goes

Christmas With the Vulnerables

Mr and Mrs Vulnerable
The nice old dears
Have not seen much of anyone
Since March this year

Except the fella with the Tesco van
The DPD delivery man
Her next door, whose name is Anne
Who dropped them off some beer

But when they heard there was an armistice
For Christmas friends and relatives
They bought a tree and wrapped some gifts
Full of good cheer

It’s Christmas with the Vulnerables
It’s the most wonderful
Time of the year

Now, poor old Mrs Vulnerable
Has a little trouble
With her breathing
But the doctor ain’t seen her

She blames it on advancing years
A health and safety-free career
It’s been the same for all her peers
Who call it emphysema

But she’s invited all the family round
Ordered in a turkey crown
They’ve had a Christmas bubble count
And no-ones got a fever

So, it’s Christmas with the Vulnerables
It’s the most wonderful
Time of the year

They’re reckon it’s OK to ask
Everyone to wear a mask
Don’t want this one to be their last
Christmas (Whamageddon!)

So Little Sal and Baby Dan
Will have to santise their hands
And try hard not to hug their nan
Like biological weapons

Fingers crossed and wish them well
A Christmas with full sense of smell
Pleased as man with man to dwell
Let’s hope they all can get on

It’s Christmas with the Vulnerables
It’s the most wonderful
Time of the year