Category: Politics

Rue Britannia

~ Toastingfork ~ 2 Comments
scouse britannia
A supporter from the Nelson Memorial in Liverpool, sculpted by Richard Westmacott.

Rue Britannia

The trouble with lefties is cultural cringe –
The feeling that England and Englishness
Are suspect, colonial, Tory in dress,
And bearing the taint of the hooligan fringe.

I swear, that there’s many a comrade I know
Who just longs for our country to go down the gutter –
So while we’re all queuing for teabags and butter,
At least they can tell us they so told us so…

We know all the customs, yet scarcely believe them,
We laugh at the toffs and the pomp and regalia,
Meet with them rarely, yet long for their failure –
We just see the wigs, not the justice beneath them.

However we came here, we’re on the same side,
So don’t be ashamed of the marks that distinguish –
We’re caring, and hopeful, and diverse, and English !
For aren’t we the ones who are all about Pride ?

And St George’s banner – why must we destroy it ?
Let’s demystify it, but love the old flag.
So wave it, or don’t – but it’s only a rag –
It’s not gonna kills us if others enjoy it.

And yes, it is shame about God Save the Queen
With its sentiments we’re ill-at-ease to endorse –
But with national anthems, that’s par for the course –
It hardly excuses our virtuous spleen.

Ignore all the words, and just hum to the tune –
A dirgy tune, sure, but the one that we’ve got.
And at least we all know it – let’s give it a shot,
It’s only a minute, it’s all over soon.

There’s bad in our past, but those times were withstood –
Let’s learn from our worst-selves, and never forget,
And sing out our best side, and build on it yet –
The odd bit of bunting might do us some good –

Don’t think that old England is not worth the fuss,
For we’re all a big part of the way she turns out –
Let’s change her for better, not whimper and pout !
Be proud of our nation, for this land is us !

Slums by Design

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photo of brown red and white buildings
Photo by Aleksandar Pasaric on Pexels.com

Slums by Design

The rich live in houses, the poor in cells,
This is how classes are classed –
From Kensington Gore to Tunbridge Wells
The best were designed in the past.
The poor get newer and concreted hells
That are decomposing fast.
Of course, the new could be just like the old,
But then they would all get far too bold –
So keep them ugly, keep them cold,
And build them not to last.

The Raggèd-Rouser Novelist

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barrington
panel from a graphic novel by The Rickard Sisters

The Raggèd-Rouser Novelist

The trouble with writers, back in that day,
They never had chances to finish the job –
Just splash on the whitewash, any old way,
And promise and short-change and rob.
Too many loose-ends and threpenny warts,
Too many set-ups with no second coat –
Till Misery’s suddenly out of his sorts,
And the author is slashing our throats.

I came for satire, complexity, and human drama – but left with cyphers and a lecture…

World War 3-D

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future war
War Machine by J C Park

World War 3-D

The US is champing and Russia is frothing,
The EU is braying and China is scoffing,
Iran ululates and Israel kvetches,
And nobody thinks of the innocent wretches.
So crank up the ante and settle the score,
Yippey, it’s a proxygen war !

With Japanese raving and Indians drooling,
With peasants revolting and lords overruling,
With Saudis denouncing and Vaticans cursing,
The banks and the gangsters each tighten a purse-string,
Kalashnikovs rattle and howitzers roar,
Yee-ha, it’s a bloc-rocking war !

Got to keep those pinko yellow rednecks in the black,
Got to stick those selfless noble heroes in the back –
So pick a side and roll the dice,
And carve yourself a bigger slice –
It won’t be you who pays the price,
As long as you attack.

The oil is stolen, the pipeline is shafted,
The min’rals are worked and the workers are drafted,
The diamonds are blooded, the rubies are spies
For the gold in their teeth and the steel in their eyes –
So give to the rich as we take from the poor.
Olé, it’s a hamburger war !

The deserts are flooded, the icecaps are vapour,
The oceans are plastic, the forests are paper,
The vegans are cowed and the pacifists violent,
The media meddles, the movies are silent,
The public are jaded, they’re seen it before –
Achtung, it’s a hand-me-down war !

Got to keep those dirty commie fascist lib’rals down,
Got to kick those native ethnic locals out of town
So pick a side and make your play,
They’re only lives we throw away –
We’ll laugh about this war some day,
When memories turn brown.

Disposable Income

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money pink coins pig
Photo by Skitterphoto on Pexels.com

Disposable Income

Of all the tax I’ve had to pay
For all my working life,
I’ve only seen a fraction of its worth –
I’ve never used a bridleway,
Or been a battered wife,
Or dug up ancient hills, or given birth.

I’ve got no kids in need of school,
I need no legal aid,
And need no shipping forecast out to sea –
Not done the Tate in Liverpool,
Nor called the fire brigade,
Nor wandered through a managed forestry.

I guess I’ve got it breezy,
Where the gremlins never struck –
But still I always shrug and pay the price.
It’s like a tax on easy –
But if that’s the price of luck,
Then ante-up – I’ll gladly pay her twice…

For teacher, binman, judge and ev’ry nurse,
I stump-up for them all from out my purse,
And whether Fate shall reimburse,
It’s just the cost of our society –
So take your bobbies and your squaddies,
They’re not mine, they’re ev’rybodies !
Help yourselves, my friends, they’re all on me !

The Deep State of Fear

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person wearing black dress while holding skull mask with horns
Photo by Oleg Magni on Pexels.com

The Deep State of Fear

First it was the Devil and his minions beseiging us,
And then it was the Cath’lics and the Pope –
After them the Masons with their fingers in the pies,
And then the Jews would steal away all hope –
And don’t forget the Communists, the baby-eating Communists,
To polish up the ever-slipp’ry slope –
Today’s we blame the media, tomorrow blame the nanobots,
But do we ever blame ourselves ?  Hell, nope !

Brackicide

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bracken

Brackicide

(In reply to the Weeds Act [1959])

Bracken fronds have grown in Britain since the Ice Age quit the field,
But suddenly the Government has said that bracken has to yield –
And ragwort too, and certain thistles, though they’re natives to a leaf,
Are now declared as stateless species by the gardener-in-chief.
Buddleia, bamboo and Spanish bluebells get to spread their reign,
While good-old British dock is in the dock, as though it grew cocaine.
There’s plenty caterpillars eating all the native weeds that creep,
But legislators only care for what can feed our cows and sheep.
So throw them off the grouse moors, sweep them into gutters, dumps and ditches –
Can’t have plebby natives on our fairways or our cricket pitches.
Hack the forests down to make our rolling plains of pastures green,
Then wonder why these woodland plants are growing where the trees had been.

Unto Those Who Have Shall be Given

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budget

Unto Those Who Have Shall be Given

Is Mammon then the new religion ?
Well, the wealthy always love a feast –
And even bankers care a smidgen,
Looking to the rising of the East.
Oxonites and Grantabridgians
Hail economists as modern priests.
But who will feed the hungry pigeons
When the gurus prowl with bigger beasts ?
They cast the runes and read the guts,
They tighten belts and order cuts,
They short on ifs and hedge on buts,
And half the time they’re nearly right, at least.

So is the market of the bull
The gilded temple of the Golden Calf ?
The debtors push, the futures pull,
And prophets lease the rod to pay the staff.
The brokers of the stock are full
Of warnings and of lunches and of graphs,
While sheep are fleeced of all their wool,
And dealers trade in bitter tears for laughs.
They watch the clouds and read the leaves,
They loosen ties and roll their sleeves,
They sup with kings and drink with thieves,
And all our prayers are now worth only half.

Mr & Ms

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peppermills

Mr & Ms

If ev’ry man’s a Mister,
Then ev’ry woman is a Miss.
Yes, even those in wedded bliss –
For single, married, we don’t care.

To ev’ry bro and sister,
We each have names, as is the norm –
Yet when we need the family form,
We add an honorific there –

There’s only two we need
So’s to speak to ev’ryone we meet –
For ev’ry face on ev’ry street
Is either Mister or a Miss.

If egos have to feed –
Be it Baron, Father, Dame or Sir,
I couldn’t care what you prefer –
We each are this and only this.

So shove your Highnesses,
And Justices and Reverends –
This snobby title-tattle ends,
So stick it up your upmanships.

We’re equals, nothing less –
We’re Miss and Mister, first and last,
We’re colleagues of a single caste –
For life’s too short for sporting pips.

The title should of course be pronounced as ‘mister and miss’.

Sonnet for the Shrews

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aviator
Aviator by Billy Norrby

Sonnet for the Shrews

Come, mistress, stay – no patriarch am I !
No zealous male, yet you rebuke me so;
I never wish to dim your spark of eye,
For not all men are as Petruchio.
I plead, do not agglomerate my sex,
And score the mixture only by its worst –
When many brothers scant deserve this hex
Of deeming women-passionate as curst.
If chauvinistic authors grumble loud
And laud a brute as model for our kind,
Then know of we who wish you still unbowed
And retch at thoughts of taming such a mind.
Far better shrews, for shrewdness thence hath sprung
In women sharp of wit and swift of tongue.