The Corkscrew of Fortune



The Corkscrew of Fortune

The trouble with revolutions is
They never stop revolving,
And neither do the topsy-turvy
Problems that need solving.
The old guard that we overcame
Are coming-up behind,
While those on top are sliding-back –
And so the wheel must grind.

And yet…does history repeat,
Or echo with a twist ?
Have we not changed since last we spun,
Last fed the mill with grist ?
If we are on an endless loop,
What chance have we to learn ?
Let’s hope we’re on a helix, then,
Advancing as we turn.



Backwards Flags

it's backwards


Backwards Flags

When carrying a standard into battle,
It goes, by definition, hoist-first, fly-rear.
So carrying a flag upon the shoulder,
Just guess which way about it must appear ?
Well, on the left, it’s fine – but as we know,
The left is wicked-evil and despised.
And so we must accept the right’s subversion,
Which sees the nation’s banner compromised.
Just ask Brazil,
Who cannot even show the sky the right way round.
A God’s-eye view, and never mind
The view of plebs upon the ground.



And here is the Brazilian flag as it should be:




One, Two, Three, Dead



One, Two, Three, Dead

Where are all the protest songs ?
Where is all the agit-pop to tell us ev’rything is wrong ?
I hear they’re out there, chanting still –
But somehow never reach me, and they prob’ly never will.

Where are all the protest songs ?
I mean, I know that pop has always
Been obsessed with love and lovers.
It’s rare than politics belongs
Beside the sugar on the airwaves,
Saving all its love for brothers.

They try to set the world to right,
But only in a quiet corner of the dial, late at night,
And fight-the-power-chords and tears
Are never crossing-over into unsuspecting teenage ears.

Best to use the tools you find
By marching to a funky beat
And tapping into pop’s romance –
For if you want to move the mind,
Then first you move the feet,
By making earworms of your chants.



Nous Sommes Charlie

I Must Not Draw Mohammed by Plantu


Nous Sommes Charlie

Mohammad !  Yo, Hammad !
Say, what you so scared of ?
You won’t let us see you in pinkie and brow ?
What makes you so special
You get to be spared of
Our constant surveillance from cam’ras and eyes ?
The truth is, Mohammad,
We’re all of us spied on –
We’re all of us public and databased now.
So Jesus and Shiva,
And Thor and Poseidon,
Must get used to gawkers, or dress in disguise.

And as for your theory
We’ll worship your likeness –
I doubt that we’d give it much more than a glance.
For these days, we shrug at
The holy or righteous,
We’re far too anarchic, and sneerful and clever.
We see you, Mohammad,
But don’t see your proof.
But who cares ?  Stop sulking and join in the dance !
Don’t tell us you’d rather
Be veiled and aloof,
For these days all neighbours must rub by together.

Can gods and can mortals
Not laugh at each other ?
We’re all of us stupid – the flesh and divine.
So let fly the insults –
Don’t censor and smother !-
Say lard-bellied Buddha and pigeon-faced Ra.
From temple to steeple,
From Mecca to Delphi,
Your noses need tweaking, and so too does mine !
So smooth down the beards
And smile for the selfie,
And show us your best sides, your je ne sais quoi !

I know, Mo, I know !
When they’re thrusting their lenses,
It’s hard to keep posing, it’s hard to stay still.
But best grin and bear it
And drop our defences –
I feel a right charlie – but hey, c’est la vie !
When we lose our senses,
Our common and humour,
We end up with killjoys who actu’ly kill.
(Hey, I once heard you smiled,
Though that’s only a rumour…
But anyway, Mo, can you take one of me ?)



Whatever the Sconces, they all take the same Candles



Whatever the Sconces, they all take the same Candles

Menorah candles on Christmas day
To brighten up the early dark –
Never mind what some may say,
We’ll take the spark.

Mistletoe above the door
To bring some green into the gloom –
Never mind the ancient lore,
It cheers the room.

Buddha beads upon the tree,
Tinsel draped about Ganesh –
Who cares if the fusspots see,
We like the mesh.

Dinosaurs within the crib,
Gandalf decked in red and white –
Who cares if it’s all a fib,
It’s ours tonight.



Winning the Defeat



Winning the Defeat

It’s hard, but when we lose,
We have to lose,
We must concede, to start to heal the pain.
It’s madness to refuse
To quit the pews,
When all the others know that we are slain.
We must not blame the news,
Or voters’ views –
We had our chance, we fought a long campaign.

We stand and fall by word-of-mouth,
From Shetland North to Lizard South.
The terms are strict, the seats are leased,
From Dyfed West to Yarmouth East

We are not who they choose,
They’ve shifted muse,
And telling them they’re wrong is just insane.
We’ll only raise a bruise
Whose pus must ooze –
And we shall never wash away the stain.
The public shall accuse
Our desp’rate ruse –
In ev’ry sense, our protest is in vain.

And left or right, and right or left,
Impugn us all, but not of theft.
And win or lose, and lose or win,
The sun shall rise, the world shall spin.

We have to pay our dues
And lace our shoes,
And let the winning side begin their reign.
It’s hard, but when we lose,
We have to lose,
We have to stop the fight, to fight again.



Ev’ry Winner gets a Free Shave



Ev’ry Winner gets a Free Shave

            (after Herblock)

To ev’ry newly elected member,
Let me spruce you up for the Chamber !
To all of you who stood against
The very things I’m fighting for,
To all the new MPs who dream
Of showing immigrants the door,
To all the laws to squeeze the poor,
And all the shills of gutter press,
To all the friends of oil and banks,
And those who got us in this mess,
To all the demagogues of wars:
For all of that, this day is yours.

So step right up !  Come one, come all !
Majorities both great and small !
You sir !  The new-crownded minister !
I see the campaign’s left its mark –
You’re looking rather sinister
With pallor grey and stubble dark.
I’ll take a razor to your chin
And even-out your crooked grin,
And give no cause for dread
As I draw my blade across your throat,
Of a single fleck of red –
For my razor, sir, is not my vote.
So even if you’re not my choice,
You’re still my fellow voters’ voice,
When tallied, said and done.
So go on, sport your freshened face
And show us how to run the place –
This shave’s on me, old son !
But just the one…