Hancock, the Care Home Killer
Says he’s saving lives
While Barnard Castle Cummings
Is sharpening his knives
To no avail, as nothing sticks
To the Teflon Tory
Who’s taken his tricks
To Westminster Cathedral, no less
To marry number three, Carrie
(I hear you’re a Catholic now, father)
But, I digress
Hancock, the Care Home Killer
Who connived
To send the virus into care homes
But said that he was saving lives
Continues to tell lies
As Cummings’ evidence provides
So when all this is over, don’t forget
Even as the statue of Boris Johnson’s getting wet
That the ministerial hand upon that tiller
Belonged to Hancock, the Care Home Killer
Tag: writing
Kick It ‘Til It Breaks
Who has got the more slappable face?
Well, Scotch Egg Gove was leading the race
But now Horrible Hancock is in first place
You’ve gotta do what it takes
And kick it ‘til it breaks
Kick it ‘til it breaks
You gotta slap its silly face
And kick it ‘til it breaks
What I said was
What I meant was
What I said was
What I meant was
For fuck’s sake
Just kick it ‘til it breaks
And Cummings’ heroic self sacrifice bid
Ain’t gonna forgive what he did
A trip to the castle with his kid
God forbid
You’ve gotta kick it ‘til it breaks
Kick it ‘til it breaks
You gotta slap its silly face
And kick it ‘til it breaks
Then there’s the care home fiasco
The PPE that didn’t show
The clap a nurse but pay Dido
They’ve gotta go
You’ve gotta kick it ‘til it breaks
Kick it ‘til it breaks
You gotta slap its silly face
And kick it ‘til it breaks
Like a Hartlepool voter
An EU fishing quota
An Eton boater
Who cares not one iota
A pawnbroker playing poker
While the odour of the owner
Runs you over like a roller
Someone wake me when it’s over
And we can kick it ‘til it breaks
A Statue of Boris Johnson
The State of the Opening of Parliament
She’s in the Daimler, not the gold carriage of state,
While the million-pound hat is in separate freight,
Pulling in through the Westminster palace gate.
It’s Black Rod’s big day out.
Where they always slam the door in her face
Before she bangs it thrice with her staff (not her mace)
To summon the Commons to the other place
To hear what this term’s all about.
These days, the crown’s heavy on the royal head
So, it’s relegated to a cushion instead
While the Queen’s speech sets out the year ahead
And new laws for those hereabout.
My Lords, she says, and you commoner lot,
My government would like to buy me a yacht,
But while the pandemic remains a blot
They’d best leave that bit out.
So, my government (led by that chap with the hair)
Will promise that the recovery’s fair,
While remaining silent on the social care
They reckon you can do without.
And my government’s Procurement Bill
Will make their contracts easier still
For the likes of Hancock’s mates to fulfil
When they’re in need of a handout.
My government will not require
Employers to desist from fire and rehire.
It’s enough to make a prince perspire,
The stuff that they’ve left out.
The state of the opening of Parliament
Where the Queen sets out Spaffer’s intent
In the gaps between what’s said and what’s meant.
It’s Black Rod’s big day out.
46 Fascists
She’s a fan of a cross, and invading a mosque
Although Fransen would suggest that she’s of immigrant stock
She fell out with the lads with the fake marine badge
Now she’s up in bonny Scotland on Sturgeon’s patch
It’s a super election, well at least it is for some
But it’s always good to see a fascist on the run
She thought that loyal and proud might play to the Rangers crowd
But she heard another message, and she heard it loud
There’s 46 fascists in Glasgow Southside
46 fash was all that Jayda got
46 fascists in Glasgow Southside
I’m telling you that ain’t a lot
46 fascists in Glasgow Southside
46 fash was all that Jayda got
So, 46 fascists in Glasgow Southside
And Jayda can all fuck off
From EDL to Britain First To Glasgow last
From Rochester and Strood to the land of the Buckfast
From Islamophobia to a prison cell
Now she’s polling 0.1% in Glasgow South as well
There’s 46 fascists in Glasgow Southside
46 fash was all that Jayda got
46 fascists in Glasgow Southside
I’m telling you that ain’t a lot
46 fascists in Glasgow Southside
46 fash was all that Jayda got
So, 46 fascists in Glasgow Southside
And Jayda can all fuck off
There’s a word that they use that Russ says shouldn’t be excused
So we’ll keep the chorus light enough to keep you amused
But it took a tartan tory to give a headline to this story
And Nicola told her to fuck off on the news
There’s 46 fascists in Glasgow Southside
46 fash was all that Jayda got
46 fascists in Glasgow Southside
I’m telling you that ain’t a lot
46 fascists in Glasgow Southside
46 fash was all that Jayda got
So, 46 fascists in Glasgow Southside
And Jayda can all fuck off
Chingford residents News
“They’re a different type of immigrant,” says Jean,
“They’re not here to graft, to care, to cook or clean.”
“They’re smuggled here for profit,”
“And someone ought to stop it.”
“Our tiny island’s full,” she vents her spleen.
And Barbara chimes, “They’re all illegal too.”
“Not behaving like the genuine ones would do.”
“We don’t want the ones like these,”
“In their virus-ridden dinghies.”
Her vote, you guess, is a Priti, Tory blue.
The hardened hearts of Chingford all refer,
To the Mail Online and Johnson’s veiled slur
On London’s current mayor,
Makes you wonder and despair
What type of immigrant they think his parents were.
And if you really must read the article in the Mail Online….
Let the Bodies Pile High
James Dyson’s tax bill, Cameron and Greensill
Let the bodies pile high
Let the bodies pile high
Hancock’s sister’s company, Jennifer Arcuri
Let the bodies pile high
Let the bodies pile high
Sixty grand wallpaper, the Barnard Castle caper
Let the bodies pile high
Let the bodies pile high
Wincanton’s LFTs, being accused of sleaze
Let the bodies pile high
Let the bodies pile high
Let the bodies pile high, in their thousands
Let the bodies pile high, in their thousands
Let the bodies pile high, Spaffer’s battle cry
Let the bodies pile high, in their thousands
Big contract awards, in the Commons and the Lords
Let the bodies pile high
Let the bodies pile high
Ayanda Capital, nothing wrong with that at all
Let the bodies pile high
Let the bodies pile high
Randox and Serco, racing’s where the money goes
Let the bodies pile high
Let the bodies pile high
Nothing here to see, no public inquiry
Let the bodies pile high
Let the bodies pile high
Let the bodies pile high, in their thousands
Let the bodies pile high, in their thousands
Let the bodies pile high, Spaffer’s battle cry
Let the bodies pile high, in their thousands
Colin, the COVID Cat
Colin the cat caught a cough.
A new persistent cough
That Colin the cat couldn’t shake off.
Because Colin was a Covid cat.
Because of the food chain and all that.
Because humans got it from bats
And the humans fed the cats.
Chloe, the keeper of cats,
Noticed Colin coughing, said “What’s all that”
“A coughing cat?”
Dialled 111 to speak to someone
But couldn’t get Colin a Covid test done.
They said, “Your best bet is to try the vets”
“We don’t do a Covid test for pets”
And Chloe, the keeper of cats,
Said, “Why do I pay my tax?”
“And my National Insurance and that”
“If I can’t get a Covid test for my cat?”
“He’s not a pangolin or a bat.”
“It’s discrimination, it’s a bitter pill”
“That you get a vet’s bill when the cat is ill.”
So Chloe cat-keeper used a mobile device
To access some free internet advice
About what to do with a persistent cough
That Colin the cat couldn’t shake off
With no cat cough medicine to quaff.
And much to Colin’s frustration
Chloe put Colin in isolation
Colin the cat, in Covid jail
To protect cats more vulnerable and frail
Will use a life to tell this tale
Of Colin, the coughing Covid cat,
Victim of the food chain and all that
Because the humans ate the pangolins and bats
And the humans fed the cats.
Spaffed
Let’s paint it blue,
Draped with union jacks
But Spaffer’s West Wing
Just got the axe
He said “They wanna hear me”
But doubt got in his head
And now Allegra needs
Another job instead
Her’s got spaffed
Spaffed! There goes your taxpayer pound
Spaffed! By Bozo the Clown
He Spaffed on the bus, he spaffed in space
He Spaffed on Dido’s track and Dido’s trace
Let’s build a bridge
Bedecked with flowers
Take what’s theirs
And make it ours
We’ll host bridge parties,
Corporate jollies
Another of Johnson’s
Corporate follies
It got spaffed
Spaffed! There goes your taxpayer pound
Spaffed! By Bozo the Clown
He Spaffed on the bus, he spaffed in space
He Spaffed on Dido’s track and Dido’s trace
Let’s build an island
In the middle of the Thames
For planes to take off
And to land again
Like many of his ideas
This one was crap
Four million quid later,
Boris Island got scrapped
It got Spaffed
Spaffed! There goes your taxpayer pound
Spaffed! By Bozo the Clown
Spaffed on the bus, spaffed in space
Spaffed on Dido’s track and Dido’s trace
Let’s paint it blue,
Draped in Union Jacks
Let’s paint it blue,
Draped in Union Jacks
Let’s paint it blue, draped in Union Jacks
And bury the news that it’s been spaffed
Spaffed
An Old Man Dies
The woman in the million-pound hat
Lost her husband.
I’m sure she’s sad about that.
I mean,
He started courting her
When she was thirteen.
Thirteen?!
Well, it was different then,
Men could be men,
And have fascist chums,
And shoot tigers with guns.
And wealth and privilege allowed him
To not grow up with the world around him,
Which he toured, by yacht and by jet
Being racist to many of the folk he met
Who won’t be sorry that his race is run
And won’t be tuning in to BBC1.
