Poetry, Poetry: political humour

Showing posts with label political humour. Show all posts

Saturday, 18 September 2021

A Right Kettle!

Keirboy, hoik your mettle up, Keirboy, hoik your kettle up,
Keirboy, hoik your metal up; we all need more pay.

BoJer’s taken it down again, BoJer’s brought it down again,
BoJer’s dropped it down again. We’re done for today.

Tories slash the NHS, Tories crash the NHS,
Tories smash the NHS and doctors fall away.

As Tory education hacks, in Tory education hacks,
through Tory education hacks they show their feet of clay.

Tory social care is last, Tory social care’s a farce,
Tory social care is past; the poor’re taxed to pay.

Toxic Tories’ Brexit lies, Brexit’s Tories’ toxic lies,
Tories’ toxic Brexit lies mean shortages each day.

Hangers-on begin to spin, hangers-on will never thin,
hangers-on begin to grin at us poor sods, their prey.

On the day they’re voted out, on the day they’re booted out,
on the day they’re clean swept out we might have a say.

Don’t let hope rise up so high, best not let your hope be high
never let your hope rise high ‘cause Starmer’s on his way.

Monday, 31 May 2021

Tall Tale: A Fancy

I’ve made this note to tell ya’all
how G. W. took a fall
down at Llama Lil’s.

He’d spent
a happy summer drumming, went
battling east to snuff out Saddam
(another warlike Son of Adam),
whimpered, chickened, finally blew it
when he bombed Baghdad. He knew it:
Congress stormed that all its cash
was gone; its Pres. had lost his dash.
Gulf fighting-men were desert dust,
so burning Bush became a must,
denoting which way the wind was blowing.
But, ah, our Georgie was quite knowing!
Yanked up his roots without delay
and stole on down t’Argie way,
where National Socialists go to rest
and oil-rich billionaires are blessed
and llama collops are served for tea
down at Llama Lil’s.

“I see,”
I hear you say. “Now, tell me, what
is this to do with the tale’s plot?”
Er, nothing, really, just setting the scene;
if the context’s right, it’ll keep you keen
for what’s to come, suspense being all
when the brain’s gone ‘phut’, back’s to the wall,
just like the Bush who didn’t glow
on turning those eastern lights down low.
Now, whereabouts was I? Oh, yes!
Talking of Llama Lil’s, no less,
that cafe themed to long-neck meat.
Mmmm, this story’ll be a treat.
Now, if you’ll just let me get on,
I’ll offer you a few more bon
mots about the Shrublet’s day
after he’d arrived to stay
down at Llama Lil’s.

He rose
early next morning, struck a pose
in front of the mirror, took his teeth
from a glass of Milton standing beneath
the shaving light. He slipped them in.
Oh, my! What a difference to those thin,
puckered lips! He’s very human!
Back when he was raging doom an’
gloom about the eastern feast,
we’d thought he was a wild beast,
one focus in his tottering mind –
to rule two-thirds of all mankind
by stealth or force. But at Lil’s his brain
was shite-free; all that went down the drain
as he showered, deodorized and dressed,
strolled to breakfast, at his best,
patted the kitchen’s widdling cat,
down at Llama Lil’s.

He sat
there; the table was laid for two.
He’d arrived at the cafe alone, so who
’d join him, he puzzled – shrugged and picked
a dish from the menu, Eggs Benedict.
While he ate, then read the morning’s news
(such trash, such lies, those slanted views!)
an extremely tall man with a stately air
planted himself in the other chair;
six foot four he stood in his slippers,
ordered himself a pair of kippers.
Ah, the English, mused the Tree,
they had such very pure thoughts about me,
like P. M. Blair. What a mighty good egg
to give me those men! I didn’t beg
for those squaddies he sent. Pity they’re dead.
These, the tremors that limped through his head
down at Llama Lil’s!

‘Good morning’
he said to the face contorted with yawning
before him, ‘That’s an unusual dish;
makes a fine breakfast. I like little fish
when they’re smoking over Iraqi fires
and toasted a tad, not frizzed. They’re liars
who yell that I grilled and charred those men
in my glorious war way back when...’
He stopped. Across the table the other
had thrown his cutlery down. ‘Mother
of Christ,’ he roared. ‘You’re Bush! Idiot!
Fool! You evil jerk! I’ve yet
to meet such a Kissingered brain
in a numpty, shell-thin skull. You’re insane.
Worse, your policies...’ The Roar soared up
and onwards, theories bawled as his cup
and saucer cracked its glaze, then shivered,
down at Llama Lil’s.

Shrub quivered.
The roll-on deodorant he’d used before
rolled off him in droplets. He hit the floor,
hunched there sobbing at those harsh howls
that poisoned eggs in the depths of his bowels.
The Voice was ranting, raving, growing
in strength and power, never slowing
to take up air in that rattling chest,
over which It wore a Vest.
The more the Voice cursed and moaned,
the more the Twiglet writhed and groaned.
His nails purpled, his face was blackened
and still the Voice-power never slackened.
It cowered the eaves, slammed in the door
and Bush lay toppled. Prone on the floor,
with a last blind gaze at the piddlesome cat,
he gave up the ghost on the cafe’s mat,
down at Llama Lil’s.

The point?
Ex-Prezzies, choose well your joint:
don’t greet a Brit at his kippers and tea
and make certain he isn’t one of the free
when you’re downed at Llama Lil’s.