The National Fabric
Flags are funny things, really –
Waving from the stands,
Or draping over coffins,
Or the jackets of mod bands.
Flags are flown for diplomats,
And flown when armies fight,
And seized-on by protestors,
Tearing-down to set alight.
They’re simple, you see,
And classic designs.
That’s their key –
As branding with bold, bright lines.
They’re loved and hated equally,
As diagnostic style
By the virtue-waving hypocrites
On both sides of the aisle.
Free-Market Free-Fall
When I first heard
That we were living
In the throes of
‘Late-stage capitalism’,
Well, I was cheered-up
At the vibes this was giving –
That the end was in sight,
Be it progress or schism.
I mean, just how late
Can a ‘late-stage’ be
Before it collapses
To Marx or to Keynes ?
But no, it seems
That it still staggers free,
Like a zombie economy
Sucking our brains.
And meanwhile, it looks like
The environmental
Cannot hang around
For the axe to come down
And the final blow-out
Will not be gentle,
Salting the earth
And polluting the town.
The cancer is terminal,
Now we all know –
So just topple already,
Accept your fate !
But for most of us,
Still the car crash is slow –
And the late-stage’s ending
Is far too late.
The Deal
A life of drudgery down at the office,
For a middle-class semi with a fence and a lawn,
With kids in school and a well-waxed Morris
And two weeks of sun – to payback for the yawn.
That was the deal – the promise of Capital –
One wage to raise a family of four,
And careers of tedium, long and unflappable –
Safe from starvation, detention, and war.
All over now. The deal is defaulted –
All of the grafting, none of the perks.
The overdose of greed saw progress halted,
As the wageslave’s lot is lost in the works.
Stop the Boats
On the one side, it’s bloody-well hard to claim for asylum today –
The government channels are ever more narrow and blocked.
On the other, why didn’t they put-in a claim in France, on their way,
Before their midnight dinghies had even undocked ?
On the one hand, the locals are facing a shortage of doctors, and schools,
And even basic respect from the Guardian-class –
And on the other, they’re attacking the same old targets – like tools
Of the very establishment that would crush them on-mass.
On the first, there are no council houses for those on the waiting-list,
And no chance of ever affording the private rents.
On the second, there’s plenty of luxury flats sitting empty, unmissed,
For city bankers and royals and overseas presidents.
On the one part, the inequality’s rampant throughout the nation,
That’s breeding and stoking the conflict as tensions are bared.
On the other…no wait, there is no other damn explanation !
No wonder both locals and migrants are angry and scared…
Hercule or Hercules ?
I’m never a fan of the gutter press,
But sometimes even the filth have a scoop that we need to have told –
Corrupt politicians must always be hounded until they confess,
(Though spare us the muckracking piety wallowing under the fold).
Holding our powers to answer is really not where the threats lurk,
But wholly with kings –
And an anarchist press is better by far than an old-boy network
Pulling the strings.
So let no little grey cells be a tool of the latter,
In a toxic smoke-filled room.
If the Augean Stables need sweeping, then what does it matter,
Whose hand is pushing the broom ?
Sacré Rouge
The bathtub killer – time for a pardon ?
Ah, now there’s a thorny one…
She’s a murderess, and a proud one,
And a test for the historian:
We may hate the very notion
Of the capital penalty –
But when a despot’s above the law,
Then is there another remedy ?
We’d much prefer to see him tried
For all the bloodshed he’d provoked –
And yet, she also was a part of that mob
That he had stoked.
Though actually, her action
Didn’t stop the Terror in its tracks,
And made a martyr from a monster,
As they ramped-up their attacks.
The fact that the ancient regime
Was such a horror is no excuse,
Nor that the new lot were the same –
It’s all a cycle of abuse.
Of course, we were not there, in the thick,
So would we be so wise ?
But today, at least, we can stand by the law, and by life –
And not eyes-for-eyes.
Tina
Thanks to capitalism,
We have architecture no-one likes,
And public transit never-built,
With roads for cars but not for bikes.
Thanks to capitalism,
Our health care is on life support,
While education fails our kids,
And long-term planning comes up short.
Penny-pinching,
Fiscal-flinching,
Skimping on the maintenance.
Worker-bashing,
Honour-trashing,
Crashing to advance.
Thanks to capitalism,
There are no houses for our youth –
The green belt is all gobbled-up
And the rents are through the roof.
Thanks to capitalism,
Our pension pots are all a lie.
With bankers-gamblers hailed as heroes –
Growth or else we die !
Peacock-strutting,
Corner-cutting,
Gutting-out all common sense,
Sponsor-selling
Porkie-telling,
Shelling-out mere pence.
Thanks to capitalism,
The MP knows who his donor is,
While banks are printing money
That they use to pay their bonuses.
Thanks to capitalism,
Now the planet isn’t fit to live –
But still our politicians say
There is no alternative.
Saggy-scruples,
Legal-loopholes,
Snooping data from the fools,
Stripping assets,
Running bad debts,
No regrets, no rules.
Two Quid Ain’t Worth Tuppence These Days
Inflation never sleeps,
She just trickles in with ev’ry penny
Added to our groceries.
So slowly how she seeps,
How her extra costs do not seem many –
Who would be opposed to these ?
But gradu’ly, we’re feeling poorer,
Till we need a payday rise
To help with standing still.
For all we try and just ignore her,
Time will come we realise
We’re subject to her will.
We think, if she just went away,
Then prices would be clear
As our budgets settle, more-or-less –
With no more strikes for better pay,
Or savings shrinking by the year,
Or old costs being meaningless.
So, is she fuelled by greed, we wonder ?
Are we all at root to blame
As we add another oh ?
For when she’s on her endless plunder,
Nothing gets to stay the same –
She forces us to grow.
Legitimate Bastards
If I call you a bastard
I don’t mean a bastard
In terms of your parents –
So don’t get so cross.
There’s no-one says bastard
As that kind of bastard
For fifty-plus years –
I just don’t give a toss.
Who cares who’s your father ?
Don’t get in a lather –
I mean you’re an arsehole
In need of my scorn.
I called you a bastard
Because you’re a bastard –
A blighter, a beggar,
However you’re born.
So if you’ve no papa,
You’re mum ain’t a slapper-
Cos people are people,
And no harm to me.
I don’t call you bastard
To call you unmastered –
Cos I ain’t an unfeeling bastard,
You see.
…because “s/he” is unpronounceable…
Singular Theys were always generic,
The individual everyman,
Of either gender, but numeric’ly one –
Not hard to understand.
But once we knew who it was,
Then he or she was He or She –
They didn’t stay a They, because,
We now could specify, you see.
This calling Barry and Susan They
Is fresh, and it still sounds strange,
Though it’s prob’ly here to stay,
And language always likes to change.
We’ll get it, if you give us time,
To navigate the new.
Our speech evolves, it’s not a crime –
Just ask the Singular You.
Rhyming Couplets 