Bye Bye Black Sheep

 

Bye Bye Black Sheep

Scared and suspicious of little Bo Peep,

A young black ram from the farm ran away,

Found he a flock of rare and rescued sheep,

And there in contentment was able to stay.

Visitors came, and with their children fed

The runaway ram with delicious feed,

The children stroked him and patted his head,

And by the staff, he was well-loved indeed.

After a lifetime of bountiful care,

He reached an old age and peacefully died;

They roasted his meat of very tough fare,

And fashioned a warm coat out of his hide;

Such was his fate on fleeing Peep’s daughter,

Who, wide awake, drove her lambs to slaughter.

Crude Oil

 

Crude Oil

 

Oligarch deals being shredded;

Johnson, for cheaper unleaded

And diesel, gets tight,

With Salman, in spite

Of floggings and people beheaded.

Fancy Dress

 Fancy dress

The oligarch’s luxury yacht set sail,

And the orthodox bishop, reading psalms,

Walked, as the sirens began to wail,

To a fancy dress, in The Nuclear Arms,

Where we were all gathered, out of our heads,

On bootleg vodka and Baltika beer,

Dressed up as extras from War Games and Threads,

Sharing a joint of paranoiac gear,

Eating cold kitty cat, straight from the tin;

Watching Henry Fonda, suitably grim,

Trying and failing to rein the boys in,

As the hapless old Bloggs: Hilda and Jim,

Purchased a whole book of raffle tickets

From a little girl, riddled with rickets.

It was a grand competition, in truth;

We made the best of our last night indeed;

I dressed as Jimmy, my wife dressed as Ruth,

And mum; portraying the woman, who peed,

While staring, transfixed by the mushroom cloud;

There, in the pub’s epicentre stood she,

Under the blinding light, doing us proud;

Like a frightened deer, unable to flee;

Expression, posture and costume unflawed,

And when the judge-bishop, at last appeared,

I all but fell at his feet and implored:

Please let her be first; but as the dust cleared,

The bishop awarded the crowning prize,

To the traffic warden, with cloth-framed eyes.

"No Blacks"

 

“No Blacks”

Here’s a humanitarian disgrace:

As murderous tanks roll into Ukraine,

You can’t board a train if you’ve got a black face.

A scared young mother, trapped in a place,

Where racist militias, are given free reign;

Here’s a humanitarian disgrace.

Nigerian members of the human race,

Are told by guards again and again:

You can’t board a train if you've got a black face.

Indian kids in a wide open space

Waiting for days in the freezing cold rain;

Here’s a humanitarian disgrace.

Border police armed with batons give chase,

To African students begging in vain,

You can’t board a train if you've got a black face.

Even the Daily Mail’s on the case;

The headlines read like a dirty stain;

Here’s a humanitarian disgrace:

You can’t board a train if you've got a black face.

Sunflowers

 

Sunflowers

As Yemen school busses are blown to bits,

By arms-fair missiles, to tyrannies sold,

As children in Gaza rummage trash-pits,

Midst bulldozed houses and corpses untold,

As Kurdish families, drowning at sea,

Die a cold death, in the depths of despair,

As Kabul women, abandoned, unfree,

Are left in care of misogynists there,

As conflicts, by-proxy, pounding the poor,

Are fought by puppets, for distant powers,

As wealth is reaped from the fortunes of war,

Gardens are scorched, bereft of sunflowers,

And old ladies scream at soldiers in vain,

All over the world, including Ukraine.

Paint The Windows

 Paint The Windows

 

Over in Ukraine last night

There was bombs and shootin’,

And the threat of nuclear might

Was aired to all by Putin.

 

Sanctions failed to make him stop,

But darling, don’t despair,

Let’s drive to the paint shop,

And buy some whitewash there.

 

For whitewash painted glazing,

Deflects a blast they say;

There’ll be less chance of blazing,

If one such comes our way.

 

Unless a nuke falls too near,

Committing us to hell,

In which case, never mind dear,

At least I loved you well.

 

Meantime, grab a shovel;

Before the war begins,

We’ll dig a cosy hovel,

Well stocked with food in tins.

 

And then we’ll paint the windows,

Quaff alcohol with meds,

See which way the wind blows;

And prep for Hine’s “Threads”.

 

 

 

 

Mammon

 

Mammon

In the bigger scheme of things,

Emperors, presidents and kings,

Are merely microbes born of lust,

Inhabiting a speck of dust

That spins and orbits, year on year,

A hot and so much larger sphere;

Three hundred thousand times, or more,

And yet that too is but a spore,

Inhabiting a galaxy;

Which galaxy is possibly

Among two hundred billion,

And multiplied a trillion,

The stars and planets’ count is worth

Ten times each grain of sand on Earth.

Hence Earth appears, upon return

A microdot of no concern

To anyone except ourselves;

Our neighbours merely empty shelves:

Now imagine, if you can;

Before all life on Earth began,

On every near and distant ball,

There dwelt not any life at all,

And presently, as man persists,

The only sphere where life exists

Is here, upon this minute speck

Of dust which we are prone to wreck,

With evermore unsated need;

A sad and lonely place indeed.