Tagged: Poetry

Poetry corner: Britain, you’re a twat

Millions buy the Daily Mail.
Pupils and teachers are set up to fail.
The entire country is up for sale.
Britain, you’re a twat.

Our football teams rarely win.
A thatched fucking loaf is going to get in.
And while it would be worse but for gin,
Britain, you’re a twat.

The Sun is sold around the land,
Which is probably enough to have us all damned.
Then there’s that fucking England band.
Britain, you’re a twat.

The government has become a dud.
The opposition just want each other’s blood.
They’re making the bloody Lib Dems look good!
Britain, you’re a twat.

The Leave campaign played us all for fools.
Both campaigns were run by tools.
The bones are picked over by neo-con ghouls.
Britain, stop being a twat.

No-one knows what the frig to do.
The rise of the far-right will be hard to undo.
Oh, to go back a week or two
When Britain was less of a twat.

Poetry corner: The middle-aged white man problem

It’s only PC that’s prevented use discussing the issue of middle-aged white men.

How are these middle-aged white men getting into the country?

It would be common sense to start profiling middle-aged white men.

Law abiding middle-aged white men with nothing to hide have nothing to fear.

How did these middle-aged white men become radicalised?

We need a complete shutdown on middle-aged white men coming into this country until our elected representatives figure out what’s going on.

They don’t integrate. They stick together in their cliques, meeting in hotbeds of radicalisation. There are radio stations putting out hateful messages with the middle-aged white man as it’s target audience.

Where are the moderate middle-aged white man community leaders denouncing this?

British middle-aged white men must subscribe to mainstream values of freedom and equality and reject extremism.

We can’t risk showing compassion to middle-aged white male refugees.

27% of middle-aged white men are really very militant about going after things.

 

You ain’t no middle-aged white man, bruv.

Poetry Corner: Standing with the musos at the back

You won’t find me by the merch stall.
You won’t find me down the front;
My doctor says that moshing may bring on a heart attack.
If they’re serving decent beer
You might find me at the bar
Or I’ll be standing with the musos at the back.

I hang out by the sound man
In case he needs my expertise –
My mate’s mate once produced a Bowie album track.
Just shout up if you need me,
You know exactly where I’ll be;
Standing with the musos at the back.

They all hang out back here,
The critics and the notable.
Once I even got to speak to Steve Lamacq.
It’s that kind of interaction
You don’t get down the front,
So I’m standing with the musos at the back.

There’s a very specific uniform
For joining this little clique –
Ozric Tentacles t-shirt and always dressed in black.
I’ll claim it sounds much better
When you’re way back here,
Standing with the musos at the back.

Poetry Corner: Recep – a univocalism in E

Recep.
The bent pretender,
The shyster.
Elected by the selected few
Recep never regrets,
Never frets.
Sheltered by defenders,
Help extended by vested nest eggs,
He keeps the keys.

The plebs see else.
Recep’s sect merely represent themselves.
See the free press?
Recep sees the enemy.
Lest they tell,
Lest they check,
Lest they see Recep’s crew exert perverse yens,
They’re sentenced.

He shells the PKK,
Deems them rebels,
Rejects the beef the West presents.
Wrecked,
They’d flee. Where?

Sense severed,
He merks Merkel.
The testy, peppery peeve detects repellent sneers,
The sneerer served.
The perverse decree needs credence,
Begs precedent.

Reject. Eject. Rebel.
Then we’ll be free.
Tell Recep, the peerless bellend, bye-bye.

Poetry corner: Money for war

We’ll take from the children, we’ll take from the poor.
We’ll take from the disabled, the most insecure.
That pile of cash, what the hell is it for?
We’ll always find money for war.

We’ll defund health and collectors of tax.
We’ll strip arts and culture right up to the max.
When you say there’s nowt left, we’ll still come for more
Because we have to find money for war.

Desperate people, lost at sea.
We’ll say that they’re coming to steal from you and me.
We’ll take their dinghies, we’ll take their oars
Because we have to find money for wars.

We’ll strip education right back to the bone.
We’ll force council tenants out of their homes.
We’ll defund the courts and undermine laws
In our quest to find money for wars.

We’ll rejig the boundaries, cut loads of MPs.
We’ll say that it’s fairer, aids transparency.
Yet at the same time we’ll make hundreds of Lords
Who will help us find money for wars.

And we’ll slander your name should you take a stand –
Principled opposition has no place in this land –
‘You support terror, you’re Hezbollah’s whore’
If you don’t help us find money for war.

We have to bomb someone, you don’t understand.
More bombs is what’s needed in that bombed-out land.
And if we don’t do it, they’ll come here in their hordes.
Escaping our money for wars.

Poetry Corner: Bloody Hebden Bridge

Scented candles,
lentils and sandals.
Bloody Hebden Bridge.

Twelve first-class cakeries
and artisan bakeries.
Bloody Hebden Bridge.

Clean public loos,
Comfortable shoes.
Bloody Hebden Bridge.

Trades Club music venue,
pubs with great menus.
Bloody Hebden Bridge.

Low rates of leukemia,
warmer than Armenia,
hilly as Slovenia,
excel in academia.
Yorkshire’s Bohemia.
Bloody Hebden Bridge.