Category: Politics

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.

Harlequins

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harlequins

Harlequins

They started coming over here a decade back or so,
A few at first, and hardly noticed, where the good winds blow.
Of course, the many coats they wear have helped, despite their glitzy show.

At first, we thought how marvellous to find such guests as these –
A touch of the exotic in the roses and the peas,
And something to replace the sorry absence of the friendly bees.

But now we hear they’re taking jobs from seven-spotted lads,
Or that they breed too many kids compared to local dads,
And even claims of bullying, from roaming gangs of bolshy cads !

And sheltering through Winter in a corner, in the gloom,
We find them huddled with their kind, at twenty to a room –
A lack of integration with the natives, is what we assume.

They offer services for thrips, which two-spots can’t compete in –
The gardeners are overjoyed, the unions are beaten.
And does it really even matter, if the aphids all get eaten ?

The market does its work, with consequences untoward –
They gobble up their rivals to monopolise the board –
They’re less a friendly immigrant, and more a raging mongrel horde !

Yet maybe we’re reacting to a non-existent wrong –
Let’s leave the species to it, and they might just get along,
With more than plenty greenfly shared among this multi-cultured throng.

But let’s not read too much comparing ladybird and man,
For beetles run on instinct, with no higher thought or plan.
They cannot make a compromise – but we are humans, and we can.

The Corkscrew of Fortune

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corkscrew

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

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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 that’s the right way around.
A God’s-eye approach, and never let us mind
The view of the plebs upon the ground.

And here is the Brazilian flag as it should be:

lizarb

One, Two, Three, Dead

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protest

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

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plantu
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

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menorah

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.