The purge

The Purge

If humankinds’ capacity for war  

Is stifled by terrible weaponry,

Then is the cause of world peace that dread store

That makes Armageddon a guarantee?

World leaders race to the end of the line,

And the winners are those whose store is best;

The highest spec; the cleverest design;

Deemed to be peerless and put to the test.

If history is anything to gauge,

Then war is a certainty, come-what-may;

Presently contained on a smaller stage;

It’s fought in the old conventional way;

The race carries on, and those in the lead

Pile on pressure, as the powerless bleed.

Lucky me

Lucky me

Somewhere in the world, where birds never sing,

There flies only drones, rockets and jets;

Somewhere in the world, people have nothing;

Famine relief is as good as it gets.

Somewhere in the world, a tyrant decides

To murder those he swore to protect;

Somewhere in the world, there are genocides,

Funded by leaders, we choose to elect.

Somewhere in the world, the land is so dry

A whole population leaves for good;

Somewhere in the world, refugees try

To find a safe place (if only they could).

Somewhere in the world, a boy lays a reef,

On a recent tomb, where his home was before;

Somewhere in the world, childhood is brief;

Toddlers and babies are orphaned by war.

Somewhere in the world, a village aflame

Is a backdrop to acts of men depraved;

Somewhere in the world, men, in God’s name,

Are slain, and women are raped, and enslaved.

Somewhere in the world, webcams are set,

To film slaughter, like it’s a formality

Somewhere in the world, people forget;

For so many, war is normality.

Somewhere in the world, in desperation,

People sell everything they possess,

Somewhere in the world, a tweeting statesman

Makes it quite clear he couldn’t care less.

Somewhere in the world, you see on TV

Things you can’t change, however you try

Somewhere in the world, comparatively,

Life luxuriously passes you by,

As missiles to faraway places fly,

And there, but for the grace of God, go I.

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Filthy pig

Filthy pig

I can’t see the woods for bottles and tins

That should have been left in recycle bins

There’s a plastic bag for every twig

Pick up your rubbish you filthy pig

If you go down to the woods today

Don’t throw your empty cans away

And if a bin’s beyond your reach

Don’t leave food wrappers on the beach

It’s bad enough that birds and bees

Are wiped out by our industries

But rubbish dumped without a care

Is harming wildlife everywhere

Did you see that documentary

About pollution in the sea?

Can you think of anything more obscene

Than Turtles eating polythene?

Albatross’s choked and killed

Whales’ stomachs with plastic filled

And all because of thoughtless acts

In the face of scientific facts

I’m not an expert I can’t pretend

To be an environmental friend

And I’m not above humanity’s flaws

My carbon footprint’s the same as yours

But it’s not rocket science to me

If rubbish was dealt with properly

And put where it’s supposed to be

Then it might slow down this emergency

The world wasn’t clean before you came

Don’t leave it dirtier in your name

The oceans are almost beyond repair

Pick up your rubbish don’t drop it there

Litter on the beach and the countryside

Is a legacy that can’t be denied

And it’ll be yours if you don’t give a frig

Pick up your rubbish you filthy pig!

©Barry King 10/5/19

Don't give up your day job

Don’t give up your day job

“Dear Sir, Thank you for the collection

Of poems you sent for my attention.

I’ve read through them and upon reflection,

To put it bluntly; they lack invention.

Your rhymes have led me to these conclusions:

What substance there is stifled by style;

Your stanzas are products of delusions,

(Admittedly, one or two made me smile).

Have you read William McGonagall?

Reputedly, the worst poet of all;

He wrote the most appalling doggerel;

“Tay Bridge Disaster” is one I recall.

But, in my view, your poems are far worse;

Don’t give up your day job; stop writing verse”

I read the letter with dawning despair;

It was to me like a punch in the eye.

I read it through again, pulled up a chair,

And then I wrote the following reply:

“Dear Sir, Thank you for your kind advice;

But unfortunately, I’m unemployed.

The day job I did have wasn’t that nice;

A career I never really enjoyed,

So losing it wasn’t such a big deal

(Although the money was handy, it’s true);

It’s given me plenty of time to kill;

Indeed the collection I sent to you

Would be nowhere the size that it is

If I was still on the factory floor.

I’m sorry you found my poems remiss,

Stifled by style, delusional and poor,

I…………………………………......"

……couldn’t be bothered to finish it;

I threw it in the bin, and felt like shit.

Anti establishment my arse

Anti-establishment my arse

Something I saw one day troubled my mind;

An article in The Daily Express,

In which heroism seemed redefined;

A stand against civil-dissent, no less!

It was written as an angry statement,

But it’s hardly an original view;

It seems to me the old establishment,

Is masquerading now as something new.

Let’s just say that dissidents in the past

Were looked upon in a murderous light;

Imperialism vanishing fast

Was reason enough to shoot them in spite.

Remember; the old establishment lied

After unarmed civil-rights marchers died.

Not all there

Not all there

He’s one ride short of Alton Towers

A daffodil gone from a bunch of flowers

A Marvel film lacking superpowers

A banana pulled from a bunch

He’s an angel short of a biker gang

A Nosferatu missing a fang

A Spanish guitar without a twang

A snack gone from a packed lunch

He’s a custom short of border control

A non-event around a black hole

A decathlon without a vaulting pole

A foxhound short of a hunt

He’s a troll away from a Twitter ban

A bristle short of a Desperate Dan

A cornet gone from an ice cream van

He’s one bet short of a punt

He’s a Morris short of a dance in May

A soliloquy gone from a Shakespeare play

A town crier with nothing to say

A pupil missing in class

He’s a nurse and a doctor short of a ward

A fencing tourney without a sword

A top director gone from the board

He’s one joke short of a farce

He’s a grain short of a sandy beach

He’s James Henry Trotter without a peach

A Watergate short of a Trump impeach

He’s an orange without a peel

He’s an angry voice in a calm debate

A member short of an EU state

A cake stall missing from a village fete

He’s a compromise short of a deal

He’s one letter short of an alphabet

A Pankhurst film without a Suffragette

He’s Wessex missing Somerset

He’s a parish minus a priest

He’s a blade of grass cut from a field

In a specialist workforce he’s unskilled

He’s a wish on a death- bed unfulfilled

He’s a morsel short of a feast