Saturday, 14 December 2019

Mr Dives

Mr Dives

Mr Dives sat drinking liberal tears
(For so he called the despair of the poor),
In the company of Conservative peers,
And an atmosphere of Eton haw haw.
He gave a grand speech; his goodfellows cheered,
Each raising a glass and toasting the queen,
Churchill and others, equally revered,
Capitalism and riches obscene.
A log fire alight gave plenteous heat,
The Champagne (liberal tears) freely flowed,
And the victuals only the richest may eat
Were consumed by all, with honours bestowed,
As temperatures fell in the street outside,
Children went hungry and Lazarus died.

Sunday, 1 December 2019

November 30th

November 30th

There’s a bed
Of leaves underneath
The canopy
Of a willow tree
That weeps as if in dread
Of winter’s teeth
And soon to be
Barren scenery

The sun shines
Mingling with rain
And doesn’t fail
To warm the air
Though divers signs
In the main
Mark the trail
To colder fayre

Leaving November
Bereft yet majestic
August poplars
Overlook scenes
Of pre December
Shades of fantastic
Yellows coppers
Browns evergreens

A blinding light
By the river reflected
As children run
Squirrels race up trees
Dogs bark in delight
Seemingly affected
By a welcoming sun
An absence of breeze

Wednesday, 20 November 2019

All because of Corbyn

All because of Corbyn

A&E departments, GP surgeries,
Health and day-care centres, public libraries,
Pensioner and youth clubs, childcare centres too;
They’re all disappearing; replaced with nothing new.

And all because of Corbyn; he’s the one to blame
For the callous cancellation of every sickness claim.
If you’re suffering an illness, he’ll make you feel it more;
He’s the bane of the disabled; a killer of the poor.

Back in 1912, as the Titanic sank,
Captain Edward John Smith knew just who to thank
For the shortfall of the lifeboats, the passengers in distress,
And the failure of rescue ships to heed the SOS;

Jeremy bloody Corbyn; he schemed and exploited
And the ship hit the iceberg that could have been avoided.
It was Corbyn who insisted on the need for speed;
He’s the scourge of the workers; the epitome of greed;

Chernobyl 1986; a cloud of radiation
Dispersed into the air, leaving widespread devastation.
What caused the overheating, the meltdown of the core
And the consequent explosion at reactor number four?

Fucking Jeremy Corbyn; his incompetence made it fail
You can search for it on Google, or read it in the Mail.
Corbyn was responsible for messing up the test;
He’s a liability; an enemy of the west.

The Rosetta stone was made nigh 200 years BC
And on it is a warning; a frightful prophecy;
Hieroglyphics telling of the coming of a man;
A demon in disguise with a devastating plan.

Beware of Jeremy Corbyn (the ancient writing said);
With his white shirt, hair and beard and tie of deepest red;
He’ll bring the world to ruin and make you lose your mind;
He’s the future king of ISIS; the nemesis of mankind.

And so it’s come to pass, barely fifty years from now,
The protective ozone layer will be bereft of power.
Scientists say we’re poisoning the planet’s atmosphere,
But should it be pollution from fossil fuels we fear?

No, it’s Jeremy Corbyn; it’s all down to him;
Out there on his allotment, he’s growing something grim.
Don’t listen to the experts; they haven’t got a clue;
Corbyn’s homemade jams will be the death of me and you!

There’s no limitation, the list goes on and on,
His ruthlessness is peerless, he’s an evil mafia don,
He’s the end of freedom; he’s every child’s nightmare,
He’s the wickedest of the wicked; he’s a man who doesn’t care.

That nasty Jeremy Corbyn; he’ll bring you to your knees,
With his call for lesser working hours, free prescription fees,
Well-funded public services, equality of pay;
There’ll be untold misery, if Corbyn gets his way!

Tuesday, 22 October 2019

Worried man

Worried man

There on the edge of the congregation,
In her peripheral vision sits he,
Watching with an air of resignation,
The stage, where, under the spotlight, stands she.
The congregation gives polite applause,
Upon completion of a poem read;
He, sighing, during each in-between pause,
Mechanically claps and nods his head.
Her act concluded; she sits with her friends,
Acknowledging their appreciation,
As he melancholically descends
Into a mood of dark contemplation;
He can’t relate to any of this shit;
He’s worried about a no-deal Brexit. 


Monday, 14 October 2019

Boris fails to unite the nation

Boris fails to unite the nation

As Bungling Boris brokered Brexit
Blasting Brussels blabbering bullshit
The rabid racists ranted raved
Rattled ridiculed rioted raged
The fascists fighting furiously
Flippantly fractured fearlessly
The communists came crashing
Carelessly continually crushing 
The brexiteers bashed brained
Battered barred busted blamed
The remainers remonstrated
Relentlessly roared ram-raided
The gammons gathered gasped
Grappled gassed garrotted glassed
The snowflakes sulking stupidly
Surreptitiously slung shit sneakily   
The treacherous Tories trashed trails
Trampled trolled told tall tales
The Labour leftist lunatics laboriously
Left leavers lumbering listlessly
The LibDems lurching lecherously
Let-loose literally laughing liberally
And finally Farage farting fretfully
Feeling flustered flip-flopped fitfully

Wednesday, 9 October 2019

Bring out your dead

Bring out your dead (a dystopian scenario)

Dingalingaling; bring out your dead;
Old ladies lying in piss,
Mothers and infants, underfed,
The infirm; starving and penniless,
Cancer sufferers, deemed to be
Fit for work indefinitely,
The terminally unemployed,
The lost souls cast into the void,
Abused women, helpless, trapped,
Terrified and suicidal,
Living with the homicidal,
On universal credit, capped.
Bring out your dead; the latest wave;
Fodder fit for a pauper’s grave.

Dingalingaling; get to work;
Snuff out the zombies on the streets;
Purge every corner where they lurk;
The manic depressive deadbeats,
Who haven’t slept or eaten in days,
The homeless lying in shop doorways,
Families, living in one room,
Toddlers full of doom and gloom,
Pensioners with no capital,
Destitute at seventy five;
Their life-savings took a nose dive,
And there’s no more collateral.
Bring out your dead before they rot;
Tomorrow there’s another lot!

Dingalingaling; kick down the door;
Drag the cadavers down the stairs;
The jobless, invisible poor,
The fathers caught out unawares
By sudden mass redundancy,
Forced by the DWP
Into contracts of zero hours,
The destitute in burning towers,
Veterans with PTSD,
The mentally ill, turned away,
Desperate, with no place to stay;
There’s no care or community.
Bring out your dead; the corpses dire;
Deadwood for a funeral pyre.
Dingalingaling; the end is near;
Get the carcasses out in the air;
The immigrants who live in fear,
The refugees, kneeling in prayer,
The reformists, the pacifists,
The environmental activists,
The advocates of equal pay,
Unions demanding more say
For workers, on minimum wage,
Having to rely on foodbanks,
And the socialists, dismissed as cranks,
By tabloids screaming in outrage.
Bring out your dead; the plan’s fulfilled
Once all the opposition’s killed.

Saturday, 14 September 2019

At the end of the day

At the end of the day

At the end of the day
She was the kind of person
Who at the drop of a hat
Would present a plate of food
Anything from biscuits
Baked beans on toast        
Curry or Sunday roast
She was the kind of person
Who would mop up blood
With a bucket and sponge
No second thought
Disgust or regret
With fortitude I’ll never forget

She was the kind of person who
Held people together like glue
Stood by her family
And her friends too
Didn’t suffer fools
Was loyal and true
Loved to have a laugh
And a drink or two
Faced down a problem
And saw it through
A better person
I never knew

Today I’m very mindful that
Once upon a time I was indeed
(Though she never made me feel)
A dire friend in need

Today I’m very mindful that
Her cloak that fitted like a glove
Was woven with humour
Kindness and love

Today I’m very mindful that
Aside from all my praising
To everyone who knew her
She was genuinely amazing

I wish she’d  had a longer time
Not cut by illness in her prime
And the world today is less of a place
Without her smile and beautiful face

She was the kind of person
Who made things better
By being there
And I miss her
More than words can say
She was my best friend
At the end of the day

Friday, 13 September 2019

Crime and punishment

Crime and punishment

What motivates a reckless achiever’s
Drive, ambition and animosity?
He lies to himself and his believers;
He justifies every atrocity.
Under the title; “Great”, he’s permitted
To commit all manner of ruthless crimes;
Culpability’s never admitted.
Climbing the ladder to glorious times,
Backed by the worshiping majority,
The villain emerges as a hero;
Justices, under his authority,
Are trivialised and reduced to zero.
Crimes, unpunished, instead are rewarded
And heroic accolades accorded.

Wednesday, 11 September 2019



Outside the surgery
Of the last GP in town
People with sleeping bags
Were sitting on the ground
Eating bacon sandwiches
Drinking mugs of tea
One grabbed me by the entrance
And screamed impatiently 

Get to the back of the queue mate
We’ve been here all night
Get to the back of the Queue you mug
Unless you want a fight
Who the Hell do you think you are
Are you taking the piss
Get to the back of the queue you
I’m having none of this

His ranting and his raving
Was more than I could bear
And he was supported
By a dozen others there
So I turned and walked away
There was nothing I could do
But wait and stand in line
At the back end of the queue

Daylight turned to dusk
Dusk turned into night
The queue stretched ever onwards
Without an end in sight
I sat down on the pavement
Collapsing in a heap
And an old lady said to me
As I fell asleep

Get to the back of the queue come on
You’re sitting in my spot
Get to the back of the queue young man
I’m desperate and you’re not
I need a new prescription
I’m older than you by far
Get to the back of the queue you
Who do you think you are

I walked all through the night
And all the next morning too
And in the afternoon
There was still no end in view
I hopped onto a bus
For a twenty minute ride
Got off at the station
And joined the queue outside

I bought a railway ticket
And from London caught a train
All the way down to Land’s End
And then back up again
To John O’Groats in Scotland
But the queue still never ended
Through villages, towns and cities
It’s lengthening extended

I caught a train back to Essex
Where I jostled past
Angry people in the garden
Camping on the grass
And as I turned the key
In the lock of my front door
I was deafened by the sound
Of an ear-drum splitting roar

Get to the back of the queue pal
Stop trying to push in front
Get to the back of the queue son
You selfish Jeremy Hunt
I’m sick of people pushing in
It ought to be a crime
Get to the back of queue you
I’ve told you one last time

After I explained to him
That this is where I live
And I‘d seriously run out
Of flying fucks to give
I made a reluctant phone call
And in desperation
Took out a second mortgage
For a private consultation

And looking out the window
At the people still outside
Thinking about what cuts
To public services implied
I started feeling guilty
For taking the private route
And robbing the NHS
Of a valuable recruit

I picked up the phone again
With guilt still in my head
Cancelled the consultation
Got undressed went to bed
And fell asleep and dreamed of
Wandering up and down
A never ending queue to see
The last GP in town

And if there’s a conclusion
I don’t know what it is
But leaving open-ended
Would be very much remiss
So by way of a denouement
Here’s my advice to you
If you need to see the last GP
Join the fucking queue!

Friday, 6 September 2019



My wife said to me
Somewhat anxiously
I’m very much in love
With you today
And I want a word with you
Tell me do you love me too
So I answered
In a reassuring way

Does honey come from bees
Do squirrels climb up trees
Do turtles nest
And lay eggs on the beach
Are the Rolling Stones a band
Does the universe expand
Did George the sixth
Have problems with his speech

Does Hamilton race cars
Did Churchill smoke cigars
Are quarks the smallest
Objects known to science
Did Lawrence ride a camel
Is a killer whale a mammal
Was Ghandi jailed for
Passive non-compliance

Are rhinoceroses rare
Is Bill Gates a Billionaire
Was Pennywise a demon
In disguise
Was Biggie Smalls a rapper
Is a WC a crapper
Do flies eat shit
Have spiders got eight eyes

Was Al Capone a Mobster
Did Dali paint a lobster
Does Grayson Perry
Sometimes wear a dress
Was George Elliot female
Did Sir Francis Drake set sail
Are there strawberries and
Meringues in Eton Mess

Have banks done dodgy deals
Do polar bears eat seals
Do British trains get
Cancelled due to snow
Did Caligula lose the plot
Does a Bentley cost a lot
Was Trotsky taken out
In Mexico

Are battery hens abused
Was Victoria unamused
Did Sally Gunell win
Olympic gold
Are the icecaps in decline
Does a grape grow on a vine
Are the pyramids of
Giza very old

Do fruit trees flower in spring
Could Pavarotti sing
Did David Bailey
Take a photograph
Are the seas and rivers wet
Does Las Vegas take a bet
Did Gandalf face
The Balrog with his staff

Was Philip born in Greece
Did Theresa cut the police
Did Cameron shag a pig’s
Head in a club
Does Tiger Woods play golf
Should kids keep away from Rolf
Did Mufasa die
When Simba was a cub

Is the pope a catholic
Is Titanium metallic
Was Kasparov 
Much good at playing chess
Is calamari squid
Would you like a million quid
Do I love you darling

Friday, 23 August 2019

The last of the Mohicans (Chingachgook)

The last of the Mohicans (Chingachgook)

Walking through the churchyard, I saw him there;
An original man, beyond compare;
An ancient eccentric, with a Mohawk;
A pensioner punk, who wanted to talk.
He asked me if I cared to share a few
Roll-ups and cans of lukewarm Special Brew,
And listen to a serious matter;
So I sat with him and heard his patter.

He said he was a ted in ‘fifty-six,
When Rock around the clock was at the flicks.
He had a flick knife, and during the show,
He slashed the seats at the Trocadero.
In the early sixties, he was a mod;
A pill popper, immaculately shod,
On a Lambretta, going up and down
Fighting with rockers in a seaside town.

In the late sixties, he found a guru,
And went to a commune in Kathmandu,
But it was run by a fake millionaire,
So he came back home and shaved off his hair.
And in the process became a skinhead;
Moon-stomping to music Jamaican bred;
Skins in the sixties, he said, were cool cats,
And only very rarely racist twats.

He was a Starman in ‘seventy two,
When Bowie finally made his breakthrough.
But when The Dark Side of The Moon appeared;
His taste in music went deeper and weird.
He grew his hair longer, became a freak,
Saw Hawkwind and Genesis reach their peak;
Back in the day when they were worth seeing,
Before the Pistols came into being.

The filth, the fury, Mary seeing red;
The established sounds dying out or dead;
He adopted a chain from ear to nose,
And the declaration; anything goes.
He was a punk till around ‘eighty-four
When the old romantics became a bore,
And for want of something better to do,
He found consolation in sniffing glue.

In ‘eighty seven he rapped with a mate;
And then acid tripped him into a state 
Of ecstasy; with new drugs to consume,
As DJs scratched and pumped up volume.
And in that smiley state, he changed his name;
“Chingachgook”; the chief of Mohican fame;
He’d reached a peak; and he had it in mind
That he was unique; the last of his kind.

Brit pop was hardly a sensation;
He felt it to be an imitation;
A knelling bell to the finality;
And demise of originality.

The scene petered out like a dying flame.
Twenty years went by and no eras came.
With nothing but more of the same in sight,
He aimlessly drifted, without a light.
Up shit-creek with no paddle or canoe,
Drowning to the sound of radio two;
Trapped for an age, in a digitised grave,
Of hip-hop, house, metal, mod, punk and rave.

And that was it; he had no more to say;
Silently he sat, and I walked away;
Leaving him staring blankly into space
Or maybe some other faraway place,
Where out of the blue, comes a sea of change
That’s against the grain and feels a bit strange,
Unconventional, untraditional,
Alternative, cool, and original.  

Chingachcook; the unique; the peerless one,
Look tired and jaded, by the time he was done,
And all his anecdotes, are written here,
Complete with glue, acid, roll-ups, strong beer,
And the thoughts of a man; long in the tooth,
Offering an observational truth;
DJs and bands are playing nothing new;
A watershed movement’s long overdue.

Thursday, 15 August 2019

A years' worth of tears

A years’ worth of tears

One day, I fancy, I’ll get a cup,
Collect all the tears that run down my cheeks,
And, if in a bucket, I saved them up,
I reckon, that after fifty two weeks,
The amount would be a hell of a batch.
What would I do with a bucket of tears?
Wash the car? Water the broccoli patch?
Or keep them, and save up another years
Worth of salty tears, which is quite a lot,
And I bet you’re reading this and thinking,
Why the Hell is he telling us this rot?
Is he on drugs, or has he been drinking?
The truth is, I sniff lots of onion juice,
And I want to put the tears to good use.

Echo Chamber


Echo chamber

Can you hear
For the many
Not the few
Strong and stable
Off the table
She relents
He’s on the fence
Tweet it text it
No deal exit
Second decider
Boris the spider
Giving it large
Cummings Farage
Join the fray
Divided nation
Ever contending
Dollar ascending
Pound descending
Public spending
Slump impending
Trump befriending
Tweets offending
Queen attending
Deal depending
Bluffing bending
Border defending
Union rending
ISIS blending
Never ending
Project fear
I’m fucking
Out of here
Can you hear
Me me me me
Me me me me
Me me me me
Me me me me

Monday, 12 August 2019

Jimmy Daley

Jimmy Daley

Jimmy Daley was a baby in need
Of love, kindness and parental care;
His dad was a squirt of abandoned seed;
His mum was an addict who wasn’t there
When Jimmy was found outside a drug den
By social workers backed-up by police,
And driven away at the age of ten
As mum OD’d and found permanent peace;
Hers was a story not properly heard,
A statistic; a problem left too late
To prevent the fate of a boy referred
To a children’s home funded by the state;
Foster carers saying he was too much,
And in need of more than a loving touch.

Jimmy Daley was a runaway teen;
Home was a future Panorama,
A tale of abusers; ignored, unseen;
A national scandal; a TV drama.
He was barely fourteen in ‘93
And he was sleeping in a shop doorway;
Hiding from the eyes of authority,
Stealing after dark and begging by day,
Till he was picked up and brought back again
By the local police, time after time,
To an institution of fear and pain;
A cycle of abuse and petty crime,
Leading to where it isn’t hard to guess;
Prison-wings, addiction and homelessness.

Jimmy Daley was a desperate man,
And his desperation grew all the more
When the local council enforced a ban
And he had to steal what he once begged for.
Who would give a job to a man like that?
An alcoholic without an address,
A thief, a junkie, a beggar, a rat,
A welfare scrounger, a permanent mess,
A man who you wouldn’t look in the eye,
Let alone talk to or have as a friend;
A scumbag, whose every word is a lie;
In short, he was labelled and in the end,
The labels prevented people seeing
An individual human being.

A homeless man froze to death in his sleep;
I read the story, took note of his name,
And thought about the things that people reap
When others sow seeds in life’s cruel game
Of winner takes all, or luck of the draw;
Harshness and indifference came to mind;             
It appeared to me, that his lot was poor,
And subject to things unjust and unkind;
The system never offered him a choice;
Who, with a conscience, can honestly say
Without doubt or irony in their voice;
That life is what you make it, come what way?
Jimmy Daley couldn’t make it a plan;
His life was finished before it began.

Wednesday, 7 August 2019

Ghost Town (part 2)

Ghost town (part 2)
Bags of rubbish block doorways
Naked dummies mock displays
Boutiques in administration
Prior to permanent termination
Vacant signs stuck on doors
Of banks and chain department stores
Metal shutters coming down
On every other shop in town

In amongst the rubbish bags
Retired workers dressed in rags
Unwanted adolescents
Zero-hour-contract dependents
Manic souls in numbers countless
Jobless hopeless helpless houseless
Down-trodden disrespected
Used abused burnt-out rejected

Spectres in a ghostly play
Many from a bygone day
Occasionally catch the eye          
Of other people passing by        
Some stay silent others talk
Most but very rarely walk
Beyond the confines of the spot
Where day and night they spend their lot

I passed them as I walked along
Reminded of an eighties song
One indignantly composed         
That told of nightclubs being closed
Walking home empty-handed
Haunted thoughts occurred expanded
Lead me to a different time
Before smartphones and Amazon Prime

And finally a lamentation
A tribute a dedication
To traders on the high street
In empty stores that can’t compete
This town is a wilting flower
Wetherspoons Paddy Power
Aldi and Lidl are doing fine
Everything else is in decline

This town is one of recession
Debt redundancy depression  
Future prospects in a mess
Homeless damsels in distress
Empty husbands empty wives  
Empty pockets empty lives
Food banks running out of food
DWP staff being rude

This town is a dying show
A sale where everything must go
Selling costing lesser still
With no-one paid to work a till
Online trading on the cheap
Shops forever put to sleep
Metal shutters staying down
This town
Is coming like a ghost town

Sunday, 21 July 2019



July twentieth, nineteen sixty nine;
In Essex, a boy, nearly eight years old,
Wearing a pair of shoes of Clarks design,
Sat watching the first moon-landing unfold.
As he gazed at the moon’s surface he saw,
It actually matched the soles of his shoes,
And as Armstrong’s foot came down on that floor,
He pictured himself making headline news;
A man in a spacesuit jumping around
Sending greetings to Earth from outer space;
A hero, (shortly to be homeward bound),
With a glass bowl around his cheerful face;
He was an astronaut, and in his mind,
He made his own giant leap for mankind.

Tuesday, 16 July 2019

Read the small print

Read the small print

Signing now would be a mistake;
Many a mug’s been done before;
Read the small print, for fucks sake.

This trepidation isn’t fake;
It’s a premonition of what’s in store;
Signing now would be a mistake.

Don’t be taken for a piece of cake,
By a glutton with his foot in the door;
Read the small print, for fucks sake.

Deals are not good things to make,
If being hasty makes you poor;
Signing now would be a mistake.

He’ll offer you his hand to shake,
But it’s a bad deal, that’s for sure;
Read the small print, for fucks sake.

Don’t put your name down; it’s opaque,
Take some time out, and then withdraw;
Signing now would be a mistake;
Read the small print, for fucks sake.

Thursday, 11 July 2019

Ignore them all my darling

Ignore them all my darling

If you think that business moving overseas,
Is an indication of a country on its knees;
And those you voice concern to, answer with a sneer,
Ignore them all my darling, as reality draws near.

Sixty thousand EU workers
In our hospitals,
And vacancies aren’t filled, as that number vastly falls;
When Brexit-backers tell you, it’s only project fear,
Ignore them all my darling, as reality draws near.

The USA has promised, a so called great escape;
New deals on the table, with no EU red-tape,
Are you reassured, after Donald Trump’s address?
Will there never be an option, to sell the NHS?

Before we’re through with Europe, there’ll be a deal they say,
But if it stays unsettled, we’re leaving come what may;
And if there's recession, and grave financial pain;
Apparently, it’s worth it if it makes us great again.

And if there are shortages, like many years before,
When rationing on food was imposed in times of war,
If more expensive tariffs cripple industry,
Is that a price worth paying, for being EU-free?

When, as we keep being told, sovereignty’s returned,
And EU legislation has effectively been burned,
Will there be a boon for every public service here?
Will being out of Europe put an end to project fear?

Did you hear Ann Widdecombe; that mad speech she gave,
When she likened Brexit to the freeing of a slave?
Did she speak for all of those, who don’t wish to remain?
If she did, we’re fucked, and the country’s gone insane.

Sixty thousand EU workers
In our hospitals,
And vacancies aren’t filled, as that number vastly falls;
When Brexit-backers tell you, it’s only project fear,
Ignore them all my darling, as reality draws near.

Scarred world

A scarred World

Animals and insects are in decline;
It’s not a good time to be a porcupine,
A lion, an orangutan, a colobus monkey,
An eagle or bumble bee.
Habitation disappearing everywhere;
If animals were people there would be despair;
Will there be a tiger, a gorilla,
Or a polar bear
When there’s nothing there?

Oh baby baby it’s a scarred world
(Fossil fuels and palm oil)
We’re not here for a very long time
(Pesticides in the soil)
Oh baby baby it’s a scarred world
(Plastic floating in the sea)
And the state that we leave it in, is like a crime
(Polyester industry)

Schoolchildren protesting in the street,
Conservationists with politicians meet,
Climate change is devastating; it’s clearly
A global emergency
And then an orange man in the USA
Say’s that it was bound to happen anyway;
Business is guiltless, in spite of what
The bleeding hearts say;
It’s here to stay

Oh baby baby it’s a scarred world
(Children breathing poisoned air)
We’re all only here for a little while
(Powerful people made aware)
Oh baby baby it’s a scarred world
(But even if they really care)
Our toxic waste is an ever growing pile
(It’s getting now beyond repair)

Oh baby baby it’s a scarred world
(Climate change deniers now)
Trails of carbon are all we leave behind
(Walk the corridors of power)
Oh baby baby it’s a scarred world
(To big business they bow)
There’s always an option of choosing to be blind
(And make the world a cash-cow)

Wednesday, 10 July 2019

The Trump's prayer

                                                               The Trump’s prayer 
Our master which art in the White House
Donald be thy name
Our Kingdom come
Thy deals be done in Chequers
As they art in the White house
Purchase this day our NHS
And sell us insurances
Against any illnesses that come against us
And we will gladly grovel to your nation
Upon deliverance from Europe
For ours is thy Kingdom
Republican Tory
Forever and ever

Tuesday, 9 July 2019

Quill and ink

Quill and ink (Writer’s block)

If your drive to be creative
Won’t get past second gear
And your need to be inventive
Lacks a new idea
Turn off your word processer
And think about Shakespeare
All he had was his quill and ink
For his entire career

People say well never see
Another Stratford Bard
And To be or not to be
Many still regard
As Shakespeare’s magnum opus
His genius trump card
And all he had was his quill and ink
To go that extra yard

He wrote a piece on suicide
Along with the suggestion
That life’s not an easy ride
And death requires reflection
How many drafts rewritten 
Before he reached perfection
Did he get tired of his quill and ink?
That is indeed the question

You might spend a fruitless hour
Staring at a screen
Feeling it’s beyond your power
To write down what you mean
But if you feel despondent
Think how it must have been
For Shakespeare with his quill and ink
Struggling with a scene 

If your imagination
Feels like a dead end street
And writing bears relation
To a dead horse being beat
Think of Shakespeare striving
As you press delete
Putting down his quill and ink
And tearing up a sheet

If a phase of writer’s block
Is making you depressed
And you’re churning out a crock
And getting more obsessed
Not knowing when to quit things
You’ll never be your best
Even he with his quill and ink
Sometimes had to rest

If your drive to be creative
Won’t get past second gear
And your need to be inventive
Lacks a new idea
Turn off your word processer
And think about Shakespeare
All he had was his quill and ink
For his entire career

If you want to be successful
And shine amongst your peers
But what you write looks dreadful
Compared against Shakespeare’s
Turn off your word processer
It can only end in tears
They’ve marvelled at his quill and ink
For the last four hundred years

But we all get frustrated
No doubt he struggled too
And he must have felt elated
The way most people do
When they finally achieve
Whatever goal’s in view
Even he with his quill and ink
Was human just like you

Saturday, 6 July 2019



Coming to a town near you
Heading out to pastures new
City dwellers looking to
Find a place to cuckoo cuckoo
They found one quite recently
Just across the road to me
A den of vulnerability
Housing temporarily
Someone with a vein to feed
A twenty year old gone to seed
A sad looking boy indeed
Previously a child in need
They recruited him to be
A runner for their company
Operating endlessly
Where there’s no CCTV
In the street outside my door
Seems an easy place to score
Their antics the police ignore
Due to cuts response is poor
So they get away with it
We put up with all the shit
That goes with living opposite
A house of people desperate
Burglaries in broad day light
Not a police patrol in spite
Of dealers dealing in plain sight
Operating day and night
I try to keep an open view
I’ve made small talk with a few
Once I shared a word or two
With a young offender who
Sounded like a needy bloke
Hanging out for smack or coke
He wanted money for a smoke
I told him that I was broke
He told me he’d been inside
I felt paranoid he’d spied
Window s I’d left open wide
Locks to break an easy ride
Two days later he was dead
An overdose a neighbour said
Now a new ones’ in his stead
Another by addiction led
Coming to a town near you
Heading out to pastures new
City dwellers looking to
Find a place to cuckoo cuckoo