The moment I hear the word ‘privilege’, I re-tune my mental dial – And ‘problematic’ sends me to sleep, And ‘gaslight’ sets me up for bile. But the word which most puts me on edge Is ‘woke’, by a country mile – It isn’t that devastating or deep, And more a case of a trendy style.
It sorrows me when my own damn side Pontificate like they’re seventeen. For once, can we all take a few long breaths Before we vent our righteous spleen ? Myself included – I take no pride In admitting to what an arsehole I’ve been. We’re meant to be nice guys, we on the left – A republicker shouldn’t be a stroppy queen !
We look out for our own, But our own can be more than our genes. Our neighbours are fam’ly of a diff’rent bone, While strangers and enemies and inbetweens Are no less important a-cornerstone As noisy, teeming teens. To make it a good home takes all of you, For blood is thinner than glue.
These days, ev’ryone has their flag, Their brand, their team – I see them as their colours stream upon the breeze. I don’t know what they mean, Not any of these – But they sure look grand ! These layer-cakes in purple, pink, and green To folks in far-off lands That will never be reached by me first-hand, But it’s good to know they’re there, That they still get seen. And those who fall-out inbetween, The citizens of elsewhere, Who are ev’ry bit as keen to share – Not part of this, nor part of that, Yet part of where our culture’s at – They’re hesitant to wear the stripes we’ve flown, Or sport our crest – Well, there’s always room within the nest For strangers with another face – They get to make a banner of their own, To fly with all the rest. Eventu’ly, I’ll see it grace A new lapel or wedding dress – Another flag I cannot place, But somebody salutes, I guess. Well, good for them – what’s one more more-or-less ?
(in reply to Agatha Christie’s Murder on the Nile)
Agatha Christie cherished the Tories, Kept the masses out of her stories – Servants were faceless, background filler – Never the victim, never the killer. Whodunnits by nature are class-based, though, With chaos disrupting the status quo, That must be traced and rooted out Before it spreads its dangerous doubt. Now true, she distrusted businessmen, And makes them villains agen and agen, Not like a blue-blooded, honourable gent – But was this an anti-Semitic bent ? Of course, she hated the socialist – But wait, with her there’s always a twist ! Just witness her Nile when splashed on the stage, With Poirot banished back to the page – Instead, a Canon is quizzing them, While building his new Jerusalem – One wonders what he might behold ? A commune or sorts ? We’re not quite told. And then, at last, there’s Mr Smith – The snidy lefty they’re travelling with. Part hypocrite, but only a part, When a short-hand typist catches his heart. He makes some good points along the way, That it’s hard to imagine our Agatha say – Perhaps once the cuts had been applied, It left no room for a seedier side. All-in-all, a little less sour, Just as Attlee was coming to power. For this one trip, it must be said, It wasn’t only her herrings were red.
Charles the First was the very worst Till he got the chop at the hands of the mob – Who wanted a say in to whom they pray, And not being subjects ripe for the rob.
Charles the Second was a letch who reckoned That the country had to polish his knob – He may have been jolly, compared to Ollie, But he still was a hypocrit and a snob.
And Charles the Third is a privileged turd Who is screwing-us all for ev’ry bob – He is honour-bound to keep folks down, And to keep the upper class in a job.
I will never condone an execution, It is no solution to crime. And I have no truck with zealotry, Give me liberty ev’ry time ! So I won’t swing the axe for preference, When my deference has deceased – I’ll turf you out of your feathered bed, But I’ll spare you your head, at least…
Hang-out all the bunting, And string-up all the flags, Polish-up the fronting, And hide-away the rags – Toady-up with treacle And dream of days-of-yore – We’ve never been less equal Since the Second World War.
Roll-out with the barrel, And goose-step with the boot, Sing along the carol While standing to salute. Tweet-away like blackbirds, And dream-away like cats, We’ve never been more backwards Since our arses got so fat.
Shout-out for the new reign, And ra-ra for the crowds. Hope it turns out nice again – Ignore the bolshy clouds. Top-hole and tally-ho, And dream we rule the waves – We’ve never had a say, though, Now we’re corporation slaves.
Dig-out the old three-piece, And doff the caps and bonnets, The fawning must not cease In its biscuit-tins and sonnets. Tear-up far too eager, And dream of wealth unchecked – We’ve never been so meagre Since we sold our self-respect.
The garland-weavers’ co-op Having pruned the May-queen’s crown With the wrong sort of dead-heading, Give the Springtime Sun a frown. Well, the pole-erectors union Won’t take this lying-down !, As the tulips will not open, While the waterlilies drown – And the morris-men eschew the white, And the Beltane brides the gown, As the fellowship of fairy-folk Are marching through the town.
I do a ton of work For a pittanceful of brass, But the wokies claim I shirk Cos I’m white and working class, And that immigrants are doing All the jobs I should be doing, But which they themselves aren’t doing, As they give themselves a pass.
And the immigrants are only working hard Because they must – Like me, however much we’re scarred, It’s either that or bust. While the wokies sit there cooing Over how much work we’re doing – Work the wokies are eschewing, Thinking all is fair and just.
So you’re the new lad come to join me Digging graves for young and old ? I’ve started one if you’d like to see, Though a hole is not much to behold. But still, you’ve joined an honest trade – Now don’t stand gawping, grab a spade !
Yes, yes, I’ve heard the rumours too – When nobles die, the mill grinds fast. Poor lass, but that’s so often true – We only meet then at the last. They’ll bring her soon from out the kirk To rest within our handiwork.
At least her grave’s beneath a willow – Hope her shade enjoys the shade. She has a headstone for a pillow – Let her sleep, no more afraid. I’ve heard it said, since days of yore, All willows weep in Elsinore.
But as for those she leaves behind, I sense a civil war is brewing. Keep your head down, deaf and blind, Don’t worry what those lords are doing. The kings may change, but we’re still here, Digging trenches year on year.
We chafe our hands and break our backs Because a serf is born to toil. So when a king demands his tax, We dig his nation’s precious soil. And if another claims his throne, He gets to lie in here, alone.
Well, I’d say that we’re nearly done. So climb on out and take a breath. Then time to dig another one – There’s never any break from death. And if we’re heading for a war, Then we’ll be needing plenty more…
Of course, weeping willows were only introduced from China in the 1700s, And their early name of Babylonian Willow came from a mix-up by Carl Linneus who thought they were the trees referred to in Psalm 137 (“By the rivers of Babylon, there we sat down, yea, we wept, when we remembered Zion. We hanged our harps upon the willows in the midst thereof.”) Alas, the trees in the ancient Euphrates valley were not willows at all, but their cousins the poplars.
Rhyming Couplets 