Tuesday, 31 March 2020

Into the woods

Into the woods

I took the dog to the woods today
Avoided families
And kept at least two metres away
From joggers and OAPS
The drones were flying high in the air
And there were coppers everywhere
And all because Corona’s
Upon the nation

Lockdown time for everyone
I’ve never seen so many  
Pedestrians wearing masks before
You can go out for a run
Or wander to the supermarket store 
Close contact is not allowed 
Don't gather in a crowd
You’re liable to break the law
And if your spouse or kids have a dry cough
A fever or aching head
Well then it’s lockdown for everyone

Will the lockdown be over soon?
I’m sure I have not a clue
If it goes further than May or June
Will Boris know what to do?
The Housing market’s had a great fall
And restaurants have gone to the wall
And all because Corona’s
Upon the nation

Lockdown time for everyone
A list of do’s and don’ts are
Coming through everybody’s door
PPE is next to none
Will Boris help the homeless and the poor?
Businesses shutting down
There’s not a pub in town
The cinemas are no more
We’re short on ventilators and hospitals
Struggle to find a bed
And so it’s lockdown for everyone
And so it’s lockdown for everyone 

Monday, 30 March 2020

Fred's tinfoil hat

Fred’s tinfoil hat

Due to low sustenance a lack of kip
Sunlight and fresh air giving him the slip
And possibly a temporary blip
Fred felt a strong urge to shoot from the hip
A need to compellingly spread the word
About conspiracy theories he’d heard
Concerns that had never before occurred
Now presently seemed no longer absurd

For example the Corona disease
Was funded by Gates and elite MPs
Supported by US drug companies
And produced in a lab by the Chinese 
The Illuminati run the E.U.
The Nazis never had a far right view
Hitler’s still alive somewhere in Peru
In a basement writing Mein Kampf part two
Greta Thunberg’s spreading climate change lies
The royals are green lizards in disguise
The Whitehouse is rife with communist spies
ISIS use weapons the U.S. supplies
Kennedy was killed by the C.I.A
Bin Laden’s running Guantanamo bay
Every single Shakespeare sonnet and play
Was written by Will’s wife Anne Hathaway
Jesus was a Persian hermaphrodite
Ali verses Liston was a rigged fight
There’re trolls in Norway’s forests at night
Hacking Facebook accounts out of pure spite
McCartney died in nineteen sixty six
Morgan Freeman’s really Jimi Hendrix
Marilyn Monroe was killed by a mix
Of the mob’s and Robert Kennedy’s tricks
Big corporations are using fluoride
Government mass poisoning is implied
Elvis’s demise is strongly denied
He signed off his death though he never died
Syrian families crossing the sea
Are only fleeing their economy
Obama wasn’t born in Hawaii
His birth certificate’s a forgery
Mass shootings in America aren’t real
They’re faked by lobbyists after a deal
The second amendment is wrong they feel
And they want it taken out of the bill
The moon landings never happened at all
Bush caused the towers in New York to fall
Trump’s a puppet at Putin’s beck and call
And Earth is not a celestial ball

The list goes on with no sign of exhaust
Conspiracy theory website sourced
Whimsies from logic and reason divorced
Some even denying the holocaust
Are daily fed by harbourers of dread
To the gullible scared easily led
Or simply sad people eager to spread  
Like Fred with a tin foil hat on his head  

Sunday, 29 March 2020

Fly tipper

Fly tipper

The council’s said that, for ever how long,
Certain recyclables won’t be taken,
And now, selfish people, either wired wrong,
Or with manners recently forsaken,
Are dumping their plastics, bottles and tins
On the roads, pavements, and over the park,
And many a neighbour’s recycle bin’s
Utilised by fly tippers after dark.
Things already bad are made even worse,
And I’d place a bet; it’s not only here;
The subject matter of this angry verse
Is bound to increase in volume I fear,
So, if you’re a fly tipper and reading this,

Saturday, 28 March 2020

He’s on it (3 am)

He’s on it (3 am)

He’s on it like a moth on a cabbage leaf
Like an atheist on disbelief
Like sympathy on a widow’s grief
He’s on it like a patient on pain relief
He’s on it like a ref on dirty play
Like a rough sleeper in a doorway
Like a raver on MDMA
Anastasia Steele on Christian Grey
He’s on it like Bach on a symphony
Like a poet on an epiphany
Like Guido on a conspiracy
Like a broker on a currency
He’s on it Like May on an epic fail
Like a lie on a bus on a campaign trail
Like Tory bias in the Daily Mail
He’s on it like Corbyn on a fairy tale
He’s on it like Boris on a bad hair day
Keeping Andrew Neil at bay
Bumbling on with nothing to say
But he won the election anyway
He’s on it like a box set on Netflix
He’s on it like Marr on politics
Like David Blaine on magic tricks
He’s on it like gloom on News at Six
He’s on it like moobs on middle aged men
Like scaffolding around Big Ben
Rosy red cheeks on little children
And yet more gloom on News at Ten
He’s on it like a robber in a vacant house
Like a Liverpudlian eating scouse
Like a man-monster beating his spouse
He’s on it like William shooting grouse
He’s on it like the sea on King Canute
He’s on it like Galloway with a flute
Like a sky diver on a parachute
Like milkshake on Farage’s suit
He’s on it like cream on a rash or spot
Like Guinevere on Sir Lancelot
Like Philip Green on a pension pot
Ripping it off and buying a yacht
He’s on it like a virus on a nation
Paralysing a population
In dire need of vaccination
Doctors nurses ventilation
He’s on it like Leery on an acid trip
Like an OAP on a cruise ship
Like a man with a dream on a lucky dip
Like a masochist on a madams’ whip
He’s on it like a fraudster on a scribe
He’s on it like Zelensky offered a bribe
He’s on it like Trump on a nasty jibe
A blatantly racist diatribe
He’s on it like a troll on a billy goat
Like a refugee on a crowded boat
Like a countertenor on a high note
He’s on it like Cruella on a canine coat
He’s on it like a King on a diadem
Like three wise men on Bethlehem
Like a jewel thief on a priceless gem
Like Michael Stipe on R.E.M
He’s on it like blossom on a fruit tree
He’s on it like stripes on a bumble bee
Like an early riser on a cup of tea
He’s on lockdown like you and me

Friday, 27 March 2020

March for the NHS (800:200,000 = 0.4%)

March for the NHS (800:200000 = 0.4%)

Yesterday, our NHS was revered;
At 8 pm, people all down the street,
Stood on their doorsteps and massively cheered,
And who would deny that sentiment sweet?
Three years ago, I attended a march;
Protesting contracts, conditions and cuts;
Against privatisation, looming large,
We shouted the odds, with no ifs or buts.
There were nigh eight hundred of us that day
And I lie if I say, I wasn’t proud,
As I, in support of the BMA,
Marched down the high street with that worthy crowd,
Though, for a big town, it could have been more:
Two hundred and fifty times to be sure.

Thursday, 26 March 2020



Isolation is a means to an end;
Adversity sometimes feeds the muse;
Eventually things will be on the mend.

I hope your partner doesn’t tend
To physical, mental, or verbal abuse;
Isolation is a means to an end.

Is lockdown driving you round the bend?
Put on some music, turn off the news;
Eventually things will be on the mend.

Pick up the phone; catch up with a friend,
You’ve bundles of time, to talk and swap views.
Isolation is a means to an end.

Stay in the house, don’t be a bellend;
Write something down, you’ve nothing to lose,
Eventually things will be on the mend.

Some immune systems fail to defend,
Let’s keep them safe, there’s no excuse.
Isolation is a means to an end,
Eventually things will be on the mend.

Wednesday, 25 March 2020

Dame Vera (a belated birthday greeting)

Dame Vera (a belated birthday greeting)

Happy birthday, Dame Vera Lynn;
Who wouldn’t be cheered by your smile?
As troubled times once more begin,
Amidst uncertainty and trial,
I, upon observing your face
Discern an optimistic place
That my ancestors left behind,
Residing somewhere in my mind.
This patriotic mystery
(Though patriot I’ve hardly been),
Brings, as we face COVID 19,
A certain sense of history,
And I, in mind of your refrain,
Can’t help but sing We’ll Meet Again.

Tuesday, 24 March 2020

Frustration in the care home

Frustration in the care home

Shirley and Sheila sat watching TV,
As Boris announced the isolation.
Arthur and Sidney sipped coffee and tea,
Listening as he spoke to the nation.
What’s all this nonsense? I don’t understand,
Said Charles, the veteran, to Steve, the nurse,
Why have all family visits been banned?
We lived through conflict, and that was far worse.
It's not right, said Fred, there's really no need;
Why all this panic? we’ve been here before.
Mavis and Sam evidently agreed:
They had, after all, survived a world war.
In short, their reactions got on Steve’s tits;
For God's sake said he, you can’t catch The Blitz..

Monday, 23 March 2020

For cough

For cough

Did you see the zombie herd
Acting blatantly absurd
Queuing up for half the night 
To buy up everything in sight
Rushing through the sliding doors
Of the supermarket stores
Like locusts on a farmer’s field
They swarmed over the crop yield 
Congregated like sardines
Fought over tins of beans
Hoarded cold/flu remedies
Trampled over OAPs
Coughed and sneezed along the aisles
Carried food away in piles
Screamed at workers on the till
Drove home shameless with their fill
They went way beyond the pale
Now there’s no loo roll for sale
No frozen chips no tins of stew
Yes we have no bananas too
There’s no pasta not a jot
No cereal they bought the lot
No chicken duck beef pork lamb
Milk butter eggs cheese or ham
No vegan or veggie fare
The bakery’s been stripped bare
There’s no nutrition left in here
Just spirits wine cider and beer
Having emptied all the shelves
In view of no one but themselves
The zombie herd content well-fed
Considers not the nurse half-dead
Who despairing of mankind
With another shift in mind
Enters now the store deadbeat
And finds there nothing left to eat

Sunday, 22 March 2020

Mother's day

Mother’s day

With disinfected hands I gave a card,
And liquid anti-bacterial soap,
To a nurse at the home from where I’m barred,
And where mum is safe and healthy (I hope).

Friday, 20 March 2020



Every city town
And sports ground
No food found
The unsound
Running around
With arses brown
Panic bound

It’s a Chinese
Bat disease
Feel the squeeze
Keep away

For the duration
In hesitation

The carefree
Is definitely
An Enemy
To the elderly 

Be seen
To keep hands clean
Beggar queen
Fat lean
And in between
Split the scene

Till twenty one?
No fun
Sorry to shun
This long run
Has just begun
Stay clear son
Till it’s all done

Sunday, 15 March 2020



Panhandlers perish where they lie
The stampeding herd passes by
Desperate shoppers panic buy
The feckless recklessly defy
Groundless accusations fly
MPs expert advice deny
Helplines give no reply
There’s no team in I
Temperatures high
With one last sigh
And a cough dry
Old people die
As doctors try
Relatives cry
Asking why

Saturday, 7 March 2020



Gawd bless ya, good day’s dawnin’ to yer son.
Me name’s Ron, AKA; Ronnie the Hat.
What’s that yer eatin, me old currant bun?
Pie mash and liquor? I’ll ‘ave some a that.
I Fancy a pig’s ear or ten right now,
Down the old rub-a-dub; you comin too?
I’ve ‘eard there’s gonna be a bull and cow;
An argy bargy with the Croydon crew.
Some fuckin slag from across the water
Is ziggin and zaggin my fork and knife,
Bad north and southin’ my bricks and mortar
And threatening me with a drum and fife.
I’m gonna postage on his lump of lead
And I aint stopping till he’s well brown bread.

There’s something Pete Tong with my watch and chain;
It’s bothering the saucepans and trouble,
Givin me old ‘arris a Micheal Caine,
And causing all kinds of Barney Rubble.
Lads on the manor take the gypsy’s kiss,
Giraffing at ‘ow I rabbit and pork;
They mug me right off; I’m Moby of this;
I can’t even go for a Bowl of Chalk
Without being followed by Gawd forbids
Bubbling behind me ‘ammer and tack;
I orange and pear me own teapot lids
Are Penn’orthin’ with ‘em, just for the crack,
And it’s making me feel bow an arra;
The ‘amptons need to get off me barra.

I went to the quack’s and he said to me:
Stan, can you tell me when all this began?
I told ‘im I want a cup of Jack Dee,
And I’m Ronnie; who the fuckin’ell’s Stan?
No sir, he said, it’s all on computer
You’re Stan; Stanley Smith is your proper name,
Then he butchered  ‘is pistol and shooter,
And said, ah, these symptoms here are the same
As yours, and the long and short of it is,
The rare condition you’ve somehow acquired
Has a name: it’s known as Cockneyitis;
The last case recorded has long expired,
The affliction appears unbeatable,
And, it would seem, sadly, untreatable.

Gawd blimey, would you Adam and Eve it?
I don’t even know how I jellied eel,
I’ve been rabbitin’ a pile of Tom Tit, 
Ronnie the Hat aint even Ian Beale,
The quack says he ‘asn’t got a Scooby,
He’s sent me away with some Jimmy Hills,
I need a few Nelsons and a ruby,
But I can’t mix it with the Jack and Jills.
I’m better of going to uncle Ned;
Cockneyitis has made me jittery;
This orange peeling in me crust of bread
Is a diabolical liberty.
I wasn’t born near the sound of Bow bells,
But I can’t help calling ‘em Auntie Nells.

Thursday, 5 March 2020

The return of spring

The return of spring

As the cold winter disappears,
And blossom blooms upon the trees,
I, in the autumn of my years,
Can’t help but smile and feel at ease.
Inhaling the scent of flowers,
Sweetened by cool April showers,
Colouring meadows nature grown,
Adjoining fields by farmers sewn,
I listen to lusty songbirds
Trill a natural symphony;
An instinctive epiphany,
Far beyond the reach of these words,
Chirruped and loudly retweeted,
From nests tirelessly completed. 

In a woodland, not far away,
Amidst spring’s early morning spell,
I spend the best part of the day,
There, where elusive creatures dwell.
On rare occasion, they appear:
Dormice, rabbits, foxes, roe deer,
Woodcocks, pheasants, geese, guinea fowl,
And even now and then, an owl.
With warm and pleasant thoughts benign,
Returning along busy streets,
I can hear a woodpecker’s beats,
Against a cedar or a pine,
And in my mind, it drowns the sound
Of morning traffic, rush-hour bound.

In early May, I love to be
Where hyacinthoides (or blue bells)
Beneath a leafy canopy,
Adorn the woodland’s glades and dells.
In youth, I never really knew
The beauty of a violet blue;
With roving eyes on other things,
Distracted, I missed many springs.
Older now (and maybe more wise),
I much appreciate their hue;
Too soon for me, their time is through,
And when they cease to greet my eyes,
As in a romance, bound to end,
I miss them like an absent friend.

As the trees’ blossom dissipates 
In favour of a future fruit,
And pollinated, abdicates;
As the bluebells return to root,
New flowers bloom and hatchlings fledge,
Machinery cuts back the hedge,
Spring lambs are reared, soon to be sold,
Hay is gathered, baled and rolled,
And I, with dog companion stroll,
Cheered by a cloudless sky of blue;
Indeed, I love the summer too,
In many ways it warms my soul,
And yet, for all it’s bound to bring,
I long for the return of spring.