Après avoir brisé toutes les devantures des magasins by Eugène Damblans
The Jists & The Jets
We celebrate the Suffragettes – Those terrorists made good, Forgetting all the Suffragists As a passive sisterhood. Yet the former wanted only wealthy women To get the vote, While the latter wanted not just Chelsea women To make the quote. We also forget the unsung million Of women manning the factories, Who did far more to shift opinion That a violent few reaction’ries. Yet Emmaline the Tory succeeded Over Millicent’s thwarted pen – It seems what women most needed Was to vote for the same old men.
Looks like these AI flyers were thrown away for having the wrong colours for each party…
The After-Poll
When it’s all over at the count, When the officer has returned, When the make-up of the new House is discerned, When the questions that are paramount Are answered with an X, When the voter’s blade has swung on many necks – As the ship of state is sailing on, Is the wheel turned left or right ? Is the outlook grey, or is the morning bright ? Just how new is the new dawn – Is it rosy, is the sky still blue ? Who are we now, and where are we heading to ?
I found this image as a banner for former Cambridge councillor Sam Davies, but cannot find a credit for it.
Just Another Election Day
Always on Thursdays, these days, Always a busy day in the week – It’s just the fate of the next five years, So best to keep it meek. Never a public holiday, We don’t want to make a fuss – Just pop-in, if you think you can spare the time On your way to the bus.
We see the early-morning party leaders Be the first to the poles – Fulfilling their photogenic roles, Though too late for the newspaper-readers, Whose headlines show the colours of their souls.
So the bookworms are shunned from the lib’ries, And the kids kicked-out of the schools, As the powers that be, begrudgingly, Let us have a say in the rules. It’s all so British and half-cocked, All ashamed of the rallies and cheers – Just cast your vote in silence, Then shut-up for five more years.
And the highlight of the day, Are all the dogs who wait so patiently By the signs in heavy font on the TV, As their owners have their say – While a third of us stay home in apathy.
Remember back at election time When I said how unimpressed I was ? “He’s just a Tory without the grime -” I said, “who’s cool with corp’rate crime. A smoother, shinier, twist-of-lime, But a Tory still, not worth this buzz.” Well, I want to let you know That I told you so, I told you so.
He’ll disappoint with his PFIs, As he sells his soul and the NHS. He’ll talk of hope and tell us lies, While slashing budgets down to size, Then starting wars and choking skies, While caving to the right-wing press. It needn’t be, but here we go – I told you so, I told you so.
We all want to ditch the Tories, sure, But why then elect another one ? It’s not that he’s not sufficiently pure, That causes me to resist his lure, But that he’s much more disease than cure – A bully with a grudge and no sense of fun. I hate to say, but have to crow – I told you so, I told you so.
When the country’s crying out for change, He gave us a dollop of as-you-were. Sure, he was better than the rabid mange Of the previous lot, that’s hardly strange – But he just didn’t have the spine or range For the shifting world that needed a stir. Forgive if my frustrations show, But I told you so, I told you so.
Humours of an Election – The Polling by William Hogarth
First Past The Post
Roll up for the Chiltern Hundreds, Try to catch the gerrymander, Ev’ry safe constituency’s Always worth a gander. Fetch the rosette off the lamppost And strap-on your parachute The borough may be rotten, But the bribes are full of loot. Then off to the Lords you toddle With your handshake dipped in gold, They’ll barely even notice you In sleepy Sarum Old.
She knocked on my door in hustings season, To canvas support for her tribe – Her eyes were so full of enthusiasm, She held such a positive vibe. She briefly ran down some policy bullets, And proffered a leaflet or two – For sixty seconds, I stood transfixed As she painted a world anew. My cynicism was ducking for cover, My probing questions were lacking flesh As she sparked a fire for change, any change – Maybe hers, maybe others’, but something fresh. And then she was gone to my neighbour’s door, And I slowly recovered myself, As I shuffled back into my hallway, And dropped her flyers unread on the shelf.
Hypocrisy should never be in season, And schadenfreude is no excuse I don’t care how self-righteous the reason, I don’t care how ironic the noose. Don’t tell me that they had it coming As you jettison all your principles. Why the rush to be gutter-slumming ? Why the lies to convince the fools ? There is never a right time to welcome sleaze, And the means are never absolved by the ends. If I hate such use from my enemies, Then I hate it so much more from my friends.
Medea was born in privilege Who was then done bad by men. And boy, does it drive her over the edge As she whinges agen and agen. She expects the world by dictum, Who has worked not a day in her life. She lectures how she’s a victim, As she murders her ex’s wife. She is offered escape to a five-star joint To be bitter in peace, as it were. Yet she butchers her kids just to hammer a point, And to make it all about her. The most tedious kind of psychopath Who’s two-hour rant must run. With the audience chastened for wanting a laugh, And daring to hope for some fun.
from the cover of the 1964 Collins edition with illustrations by Lawrence Beall-Smith
Tom, Dick, & Hooray !
Why are we still telling tales of Tom Jones ? A Georgian lad with a leg to get over – So honest and randy and easily led Beneath ev’ry petticoat, straight into bed. Wide-eyed and panting, they call him in moans, As he’s shagging through shires like a journeyman rover – But deep down he’s pining for saintly Sophia, And wouldn’t you know it, he’s really a squire !
Why are we still making love to Tom Jones ? A privileged lad who will caution for nothing. Where women are scheming, with wanton presumption, Except for his virgin, who’s lacking in gumption. But is he a victim to his very bones, Whom the wealthy corrupt when in need of a stuffing ? Yet he’s too busy romping to care for abuse, As the good-for-the gander has plucked him a goose.
I should point out that I always understood that in the 1700s (or indeed the 11700s), ‘Sophia’ did indeed rhyme with ‘squire’ (as long as your accent wasn’t rhotic, which was lucky, as the better sort were shunning such yokel diction, and thought all such Somersetters were talking arse, so to speak).
As for the novel, it is a fascinating record of the times – the tale of a boy from nowhere who is exiled from the green green grass of home, only to fall prey to many a delilah and sex bomb. Of course, as such tales go, it’s not unusual, and certainly not what’s new, pussycat.
You should be my own people – Strivers for a bright tomorrow, Dreamers for an equal way, A better chance, a greater say. But the moralising streaks still creep With the finger-wag to follow – Authoritarian and snide, How come we’re on the same damn side ?
You should be my own people, Treating people just the same – Instead, you’re tribal, keeping score, Denouncing heretics galore. But no ! Rebuking you is cheap – I still believe we share an aim. What makes us strong, what shows we care, Is when our foes are treated fair.
Rhyming Couplets 