https://youtu.be/iTV6F3lTU7o

The accompanying video is of Emma Kirkby (an old family favourite of ours) singing “Dido’s Lament”  by Henry Purcell. It’s one of the saddest pieces of English music I’ve ever heard, and so, is most appropriate.

I’ve modelled my poem around Dylan Thomas’ “Do not go gentle into that good night”, on the premise that the night we currently face is not, in any sense ...

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Rachel touts for votes in Leeds,

but Rachel Gen O’ Cide is fleet,

yes, Rachel and her minder run

from awkward questions on our streets;

that mother’s questions ain’t no fun;

have you had a drink of water?

have you eaten more than crumbs?

Gaza’s children have to dig

for water whilst they’re dodging bombs,

Rachel, do you give a fig?

have you had to dig your daughter

...

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How do you fancy ripping tents up, Angie,

instead of nipping to the corner shop?

Here in the town of Stockport, Lancashire,

when sirens sounded, townsfolk gratefully fled

to shelter under arches stout and strong;

but now, the stench of death pervades the air,

the body politic is now corrupt;

no air raid shelters for the innocents

of Gaza under rubble, three months gone;

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To write a couple of lines I am inclined,

About a cat, sat on my front-door mat,

That was or was not, victim of a crime.

There in a box it sat, and that was that!

Or so I thought; then wrote a few more lines.

That’s not my cat, it is Herr Schrödinger's!

Is it quite dead, or is it doing fine?

Are Cheshire cats renowned malingerers?

Your answers to my questions I invite;

...

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Welcome to Britain, madam Ambassador for Genocide;

this carpet’s the latest fashion, Slaughterhouse Red.

Per Ardua ad Astra is how they died,

a diet of porky pies, what they were fed, 

“We will remember them”, cry solemn parrots, 

ad nauseam, per annum, dog-whistled, 

forgetting stick, they much prefer those carrots,

warmongering Lords want us protestors kettled; 

oh yes, ...

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On Cable Street in ‘thirty-six

they said ¡No Pasarán! keeping Fascists at bay

with chamber-pots pouring, with fists kicks and bricks.

But on that hypocrites’s watch, in ‘twenty-three,

they said “¡Pasarán! it’s the Fascists field day”,

Spanish Nazis and Blackshirt admirers roamed free

on Preston’s streets, decency slayed;  

our ex-home secretary now protests for genocide,

...

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Vent your anger on people in small boats,

on long-haired gorgeous blokes, who like to wear skirts;

forget the yachts sailed by millionaire thieving scrotes,

forget who welcomed to the UK, Nazis and Blackshirts,

facts indeed are sacred, as someone said,

but only facts which the sewer chooses to reveal,

yes, no news is good news, what nearly thirty thousand dead?

targetted jour...

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This poem is based on a story which appeared over Christmas, and which was taken to be true!

AWOL = absent without leave

The Christmas gammon have gone spitting mad,

they think asylum seekers are going AWOL

for Christmas: yes here in the UK it’s that bad,

with nothing around here but strife and trouble,

that’s why those “foreigners” want to go home!

Gee Beebie News are ha...

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