King of the Brexiteers

 King of the Brexiteers

“Fortune seeking foreigners

Are welcome here no more

Muslim refugees will be

Returned to zones of war

Open borders will be shut

And shut they will remain

When Europe splits

And Britain’s GREAT again

We’ve turned our backs on Eurocrats

Made a great escape

Let’s strike a deal with the USA

Cut away red tape

The will of the people’s spoken out

And made its feelings plain

Together we’ll make Britain GREAT again”

All hail the dandy man

Three cheers; hip hip hooray!

It’s June the twenty third

Our happy Independence Day

Raise your glasses everyone

And toast with liberal tears

The greatest Englishman alive

King of the Brexiteers

He said, “Your quality of life

Will surely be improved

Once free movement stops

And human rights have been removed

Those rules imposed upon us

With Europhile disdain

Will disappear when Britain’s GREAT again

Bulgarians, Romanians won't

Be coming here for sure

(I wouldn’t want a family

Of them living next door)

Entry to this country will

Be harder to obtain

We’ll lock it down when Britain’s GREAT again”

All hail the dandy man

The rightest of them all

He’s right so far

He’s so far right

He’s Strong and masterful

He drives us on to greatness

This man who has no peers

And we will gladly follow him

King of the Brexiteers

“Yes the will of the people’s spoken

What more can I say?

Very soon from now

All immigrants we’ll turn away

And then we’ll have a row

With France or Germany or Spain

We’ll thrash them all

When Britain’s GREAT again

We’ll sell arms to the Saudis

To the Chinese we will crawl

If Brussels doesn’t like it

Then we’ll offer them a brawl

Not a soul will dare to stop us

Terrorize us or restrain

They’ll be in awe

When Britain’s GREAT again”

All hail the dandy man

He’s British through and through

He’s got a bulldog spirit

And he’s red white blue and true

He’s heaven sent among us

He’s the answer to our fears

Scourge of invading foreigners

King of the Brexiteers

All hail the dandy man

You forty eight percent

Can moan as much you like

We’re determined and hell bent

We’ll offer him a knighthood

In answer to your sneers

He’s the greatest Englishman alive

King of the Brexiteers

Saccharin

Saccharin

Sour saccharin sentimentality

fed to the masses by the Epstein class;

more Soma, deflecting humanity.

A tattooed, tad too twee banality,

plays, and the murderers get a free pass.

Sour saccharin sentimentality,

equating to Nero’s insanity,

the crassest of MOR superstars;

more Soma, deflecting humanity.

A call for peace deemed a profanity,

insipidness continually jars;

sour saccharin sentimentality.

But it’s complicated apparently.

Sorrowful tears and acoustic guitars;

more Soma, deflecting humanity.

Entitlement, mammon, and vanity,

turned scripture into a biblical farce.

Sour saccharin sentimentality;

more Soma, deflecting humanity.

Paddington Went to Piddington

Paddington Went to Piddington

Paddington went to Piddington

To buy orange marmalade

And there by a pack

Of hard men-in-black

Was overly long delayed

Being too slight to pick a fight

He curtsied graciously

Requesting would they

Move out of the way

Lest he be late for his tea

We can’t comply came a curt reply

With nary a trace of sorrow

We’re guarding our kin

From strangers within

By order of Danny Tommo

Paddington fled from Piddington

And far beyond the station

A shred he spread

On slices of bread

Whilst pondering immigration

And from his plate a sandwich he ate

Thoroughly chewing it through

Upon which he chose

To keep his cards close

Regarding his birth in Peru

An Idiotic Incel in a Cell

An Idiotic Incel in a Cell

Down in the rabbit-warren he fell;

took a right turn a bit too far,

an idiotic incel, in a cell;

the subject of this villanelle,

pertaining to a fallen YouTube star;

down in the rabbit-warren he fell;

the occupant of a hermit shell,

in solitary, where the nonces are;

an idiotic incel, in a cell;

a pawn in a fascist tech-nerd hell,

pondering the title of his memoir;

down in the rabbit-warren he fell,

sentenced justly to a lengthy spell,

for hitting a girl with a metal bar;

an idiotic incel, in a cell,

with a sore, sorry, story to tell,

and a claim to Christian faith bizarre;

down in the rabbit-warren he fell;

an idiotic incel, in a cell

See

Lost

Lost

Tell me the way to anywhere,

And it will be unremembered

By the time I’m less than halfway there,

My brain being encumbered

With directional dyslexia,

Rendering such information

A source of amnesia,

Topographical disorientation,

Anxiety and often panic.

When you see me walking somewhere bound,

Looking decidedly more manic

Than a man who knows his way around,

Feel free to offer your assistance;

But when I’m alone behind the wheel,

I’d urge you to keep your distance;

Even with satnav I’m struggling still,

Never more than fifty percent,

Certain I’ve set it up correctly,

And I don’t want to receive a rear dent,

Due to having changed lanes suddenly.

But fear not: these days I take the bus;

A longer journey, at little cost,

Cheaper than the train, and much less fuss,

Though, on occasion, I still get lost.

Take the other day, for example:

I went by bus to Dovercourt

To visit a mate from my old school,

And, for reasons unbeknown, I thought

I’d reached my destination, and hence

Vacated, upon which I saw

Landmarks that made no sense

In a place I’d never been before;

And I hadn’t a clue as to what

Route or direction I should take, this

Being an unfamiliar spot,

I didn’t know whether I’d missed

The stop or gotten off too soon.

To proceed or not to proceed, that

Was the question, on the morn (or noon?)

I got lost on the way to his flat.

“Excuse me, is this the right way

To Dovercourt, and the Bathside estate?”

But no one local was out that day

“Sorry, don’t live here can’t help you mate”,

They mostly said, apologetically,

All except one, who with kind intention

Said I’d get there eventually

If I walked in the opposite direction.

But lest this story too goes astray;

Long ramble short, I found the abode,

Though the timetable dictated my stay;

A bus wanker’s lot is a limited mode,

More inconvenient than a car;

But a self-imposed ban’s all for the best

And public transports safer by far,

Not knowing North, from South, East, or West.

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Social Media is a Curse

Social Media’s is a Curse

Facebook, TikTok, X, or Twitter,

Makes you anxious, angry, bitter,

Overfeeding vanity,

It turns your personality,

Into a ranting avatar,

Misrepresenting who you are;

An actor on a global stage,

Poet, warrior, prophet, sage,

Or whatever; take your pick;

A self-opinionated prick,

Chucking their two penn’orth in

The algorithmic data bin,

Is all it ever amounts to

For the most part, in Myspace view,

Unless you’re POTUS, posting mental

Consequential Tweets, on Truth Central,

In which case: Facebook, TikTok, X,

Or Twitter, and whatever next,

Are a source of tribal division,

A textualized war of attrition,

Fought in the interests of the self,

In pursuit of followers, and wealth;

The theatre having been designed by

The puppeteers of the orange guy,

Deliberately/inadvertently,

Nocturnally tweeting World War Three...

D’you think so too? Or is it just Me?

If the latter, I surely would be

Vlogging, with no little vanity,

All for the sake of humanity:

SOCIAL MEDIA IS A CURSE:

(Another cliché, written in verse).

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Vote For Binface

Vote For Binface

Little people, what have you gained?

Union Jacks flying everywhere;

I hope you won’t get fooled again,

By a Crypto fake who’s never there.

If you think he cares about your town,

Have a look around at all the rot

St Osyth & Jaywick still run down

Clacton-on-Sea’s a crime hotspot.

Vote for Binface,

Ring in the changes now you can,

Vote for Binface,

Au revoir to the dandy man.

Do you really want an MP

Who rarely speaks on your behalf?

He never once held a surgery

Only appeared for a photograph

He’s less anti-establishment,

More a stooge for multi-billionaires,

A pillar of self-entitlement,

To profiteering company shares.

Vote for Binface

Nigel’s not a people’s bloke

Vote for Binface

Super yachts will make you broke

Vote for Binface

Like you’ve never done before

Vote for Binface

Take the trash out, sweep the floor.

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