Tuesday, 12 August 2025

Own Worst Enemy

Own Worst Enemy

Wilful ignorance and stupidity,
perpetuates, powerlessness, poverty, war:
the working class right: its own worst enemy;
a bleating flock of failed humanity,
parroting populist pish, with yet more
wilful ignorance and stupidity;
swallowing slogans, two-a-penny;
playground politics, jungle law;
the working class right: its own worst enemy;
a riotous mass of raving lunacy,
nationalism, hatred and hard-core,
wilful ignorance and stupidity,
led by fraudsters lying with impunity;
science, academia, ridiculed, ignored;
the working class right: its own worst enemy,
vents on a scapegoated community;
pays homage to wealth-hoarders sailing offshore.
Wilful ignorance and stupidity;
the working class right: its own worst enemy.

Thursday, 7 August 2025

Villain in The White House

Villain in The White House

Villain in The White House please impeach
An orange grabbed a teenage peach
A paedophile hanged himself with his bed-sheeting
While the cameras failed and the guards were sleeping
Villain in The White House a Putin asset
Bankrupt casinos Qatari jet
Prices rising on the racks and shelves
Medicaid’s gone you gotta pay for yourselves
Villain in The White House he’s the king
Of hubris double-speak and posturing
Trade-wars tariffs God and MAGA’s brand
Watch out Panama Canada Greenland
Villain in The White House please don’t speak
Every queer and transsexual’s a scapegoat freak
ICE deport incarcerate en-masse
El Salvador Alligator Alcatraz
Villain in The White House preachers preach
Limitations on your free speech
No woke persuasion nor toleration
Of CRT in education
Villain in The White House sales increase
Weapons raining down on kids won’t cease
Occupation starvation genocide
A new Las Vegas a Nobel Peace Prize

Thursday, 31 July 2025

In YouWendy Oh

In You Wendy Oh!

I was playing with myself, one fine day,
Indulging in a game of Solitaire,
With my tired old deck ; and about to lay
A well fingered queen of diamonds, when there
Came a knock, causing me to stand erect,
Walk to the front door, and turn the knob,
Knowing neither who nor what to expect;
And there was Wendy, who’d been on the job,
With a pair of shears at her evergreen,
The which she was struggling with the tall bits,
Left wild, on account of their having been
The nesting abode, of a pair of tits,
And which were presently well overgrown;
Eggs hatched, nest empty, tits, fledglings, long flown.
“I’ve a long Black and Decker”, said I,
“It should be able to reach, at a push,
You’re welcome to borrow, and give it a try,
Or else I’ll come over, and trim your bush”.
Offer accepted; I cut, and she held
My step ladder steady, lest I should fall;
And all the bush cuttings, leaves, branches, felled,
Filled up her two sacks in no time at all.
“Thank you” said Wendy “Now I can get on
With finding my nape vibrator that’s lost;
I’ve put it somewhere: God knows where it’s gone;
I hope I’ve not inadvertently tossed
It”; “Oh” I replied, “Wendy, don’t worry,
I’ll help you find it; I’m in no hurry”.
Standing, and crouching, and down on all fours,
In the main bedroom of Wendy’s semi,
I meticulously went through her draws,
Whilst she, below, made juices aplenty,
In the kitchen; keeping me hydrated,
Till, low and behold, I found her device!
Suffice to say she, highly elated,
Applied it around her neck in a trice:
“Oh what a relief” said she, with a sigh;
“Where did you find it? I’ve looked everywhere”,
“Here”, I responded, by way of reply:
“In amongst your bottom-drawer underwear”;
And all being said and decidedly done,
I returned home to solitary fun.

Monday, 28 July 2025

Wear and Tear

Wear and Tear

Swollen prostate dodgy heart
Follow through with every fart
A shoelace tied with ease would be a start
Hip joints are crumbling apart

Thursday, 5 June 2025

Burning the Flag

Burning the Flag

Laurence is burning the Pride flag today;
Same as he always does, this time of year;
In his back garden, all smiley and gay;
As in cheery, or merry; to be clear:
I emphasise that in case he reads this,
And prosecutes me for taking the piss;
(Which would be very ironic indeed,
What with him being in desperate need
Of funds for his ruinous legal fees,
Having crowdfunded a fiver; no more;
His brief looks to leave him exceedingly poor,
Defending his numerous “Not guilty” pleas,
In view of past libellous misdemeanours
Ending with Laurence dragged to the cleaners.
What is it with so-called proud- patriots;
For all their lamenting, the trash they preach,
Or roar with like-minded compatriots,
Wanting things banned, in the name of “Free-speech”?
Do they really think we’re under attack
And can’t even fly the Union Jack,
Through fear of arrest: could it really be,
They take Stuart Lee’s joke seriously?
Believing what they hear on GB News
Read in The Mail, The Sun, The Express?
Do they wish to suppress expression, dress,
In line with their anti-transgender views?
British, proud, fearless, yet threatened by pride;
Are they denying their feminine side?
I found a picture on Google of Fox
In an itsy bitsy teenie weenie
Not yellow but blue, (with no polka dots
And presumably borrowed) bikini.
There’s a caption underneath explaining
His reasons; evidently complaining
About women being told what, or what
Not to wear, by MPs, or some such rot,
As meaningful as a dribble of snot,
Along with a trademark phobic comment,
Obviously written with biased intent,
He being racist (though he says he’s not);
And I couldn’t help thinking to myself:
Is Laurence unwittingly outing himself?
Which led me to further wonder: what would
Happen if Tommy Robinson posted
An account of his inner womanhood
On X? Would he be vilified, roasted,
For wearing a dress of Stone Island make?
Or would his legions, following suit, take
To wearing the same, and be led like sheep
To the cenotaph, by Little Bo Peep,
On Remembrance day, all the while waving
A flag of their choice and not getting nicked;
No one being shouted at, punched or kicked?
That would be something really worth saving:
Unlike the bigots of their high regard
Burning Pride flags, acting manly and hard.

Saturday, 31 May 2025

Deflection

Deflection

Powers of unfit disposition
Cherry-pick texts from religion
Pass laws bringing pain
Self-affluent gain
Eliminate all opposition
And set us against one another
Deflected by fear of the other
Whilst their algorithm
Results in a schism
From which we may never recover
On tablet/phone keyboards we type
Opinions of similar stripe
Or argue the toss
Hot bothered and cross
With platitudes commonly tripe
Each doubling down on opinions
We throwaway billons nay TRILLIONS
Of riches to those
Whose wealth daily grows
Are we then no more than mere minions?
If only we had the ability
To shut up and join in civility
Collectively see
These powers that be
Thrive on the want of humility

Monday, 19 May 2025

Ray

Ray (For fantastic teachers everywhere)

My book of Mayfield memories,
Is full of faces blank,
Tyrannical teachers, bullies,
Old desks and classrooms rank;
Mainly forgotten, or at least,
Their ill effects have all but ceased;
And, to be bluntly frank:
From an objective point of view;
I admit: sometimes, I bullied too.
Be that as it may; I rarely
If ever, dwell on it;
My school years were fairly, squarely,
Typical of the shit
Endorsed by the establishment,
Back when corporal punishment
Was legally, deemed fit
For teachers fond of dishing pain,
Via ruler, slipper, or cane.
Mr Collins, a breath of air;
An antidote to doom,
Wearing Joe Ninety’s, and threadbare
Cord, breezed into the gloom
Of the atmosphere, where we sat,
Quietly, waiting; and, just like that,
The mood in the classroom
Changed to something approaching cool,
On my first day at Mayfield school.
His countenance, as I recall,
Was round (but not too much);
Neither especially tall
Nor short; he was a touch
Thinning on top, comb-over style;
He had a winning, friendly smile,
His manner being such
As to emit a warming glow;
And I liked him from the get-go.
He taught English, drama and lit;
And consequently they,
Before long, were my favourite
Subjects suffice to say;
Although in fairness, metal-work, French,
Science or maths, would have been a wrench
Whatever; come what may;
I was hardly academic,
And metal work made me feel sick.
Mr Collins would improvise;
On the odd occasion,
He’d give us leave to exercise
Our imagination;
I felt, as I ad-libbed a farce,
One time, in front of all the class,
I’d found my vocation!
(And even now I can’t resist
Being an exhibitionist).
He read the Hobbit, and we laughed
At his bad mimicry,
Making the characters sound daft;
Gollum especially.
Through Mr Collin’s eyes I saw
Beauty I’d never known before;
He sparked a fire in me;
And then he left!
The fire turned cold,
And I lost heart,
At twelve years old.
But,
Like Aragorn, he returned;
Some years later, by which
Time, this candle had long since burned;
All yearnings in the ditch;
At fourteen, I was well moulded,
Beaten into shape, and scolded;
A scared kid, with a twitch,
Primed for yet another two years,
Towing/writing lines, with his peers.
I failed all my exams, bar one:
An O level, grade C
In English; and that being done,
I entered the factory
Where I winged it, not quite unskilled,
Writer’s ambitions unfulfilled,
Barring the poetry,
Written between button pushing,
When the foreman wasn’t looking.
Mr Collins, was a light ray,
And a key to a door,
Open enough for me to say,
Now I’m working no more:
If not for you, I maybe would
Have been more skilled, earning a good
Crust, but inwardly: poor,
Vexed, closed-minded, resigned to fate;

Not in the zone, (albeit late);
Cheers for unlocking,
You’re a star mate.