The Fraud

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Such an edifying sight, were those poppies, this Remembrance Sunday,

on the Cenotaph railings, twenty times larger than life,

which were bunting-bedecked by flag-shaggers’ Union Jacks,

statements - or warnings - to “them illegulls, them immigrunts”

across the road - who’ve lived and worked here for as long as I have.

Remembrance? Respect? Turned to junk in their rag-tatter’s yard.

 

The day after, at home I sit in pensive mood

‘til the Eleventh Hour’s solemn reminder has thundered its message

to each and everyone. Now, having promised myself

I’d write something, anything, in anger or in sorrow,

I hold pen in hand, paper blank, my jihad begins.

Scannning ceiling, walls and floor for inspiration,

my eyes alight upon our chimney breast

adorned by three ceramic flying ducks,

so á la mode, like truth, in the Murdoch sewer.

 

Which brings me to “The Fraud”, that Human Rights lawyer.

Though not quick to judge a book by its cover,

I saw right through him, read him front to back,

His “Change”? Islamophobia’s rising tide,

His Remembrance? standing shoulder to shoulder with Genocide.

 

Up there, on the mantlepiece, a photo of yours truly,

proudly cradling our newborn grandchild in his arms,

and near it, nestles a poppy as red as blood,

which I see every day in our living room, remembering them,

a simple gift, fashioned twelve months back by a lass

whose grandad had been squadron leader in the Royal Air Force.

The blurb on the telly’s gaslit me for quite some days,

telling me that “Wearing a poppy shows you care”,

but I’m damned if I’ll wear that flower just for show.

 

The UK’s become a Malice in Blunderland world

where RAF veterans, Jews and people in wheelchairs

face prison, are manhandled, arrested with the consent of The Fraud,

for fulfilling their duty to uphold international law.

Behold ye the man who invoked Powell’s “Island of Strangers”!

There he stands alongside the Ambassador for Genocide,

the blood on his hands screaming louder than the plastic grief

which he parades to the world, as he drones “Lord with me abide”.

 

Coffee in hand, I look up at those three flying ducks,

pondering on what might become of Gaza’s children,

thankful that, by sheer good fortune, my own are well-fed,

as are, thanks to Number Ten, the dogs on Gaza’s streets,

each carefully aimed bullet and bomb ensures tasty treats.

 

I reflect between sips on what in truth, I’ve always known:

That for Gaza’s children, the Fraud don’t give three flying fucks.

Le Uilleam Ó Ceallaigh,

Déardoin, an tríú lá déag de mhí na Samhna,

dhá mhíle agus cúig is fiche.

(Thursday 13th November 2025)