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.
I know I’m just a killjoy, But today I have to ask, Can the News retain its dignity And not let slip the mask ? Best leave the April fooling To those more befitted to the task.
But then, I guess I am a fool To hold to my belief – When the News has always lied to us And manufactured grief. Moral panics, dirty tricks, Spaghetti Trees and San Serriffe.
The flourishing show-off their fruits, As they always do, From star to plutocrat. And I want to hate their loot – But then I hear you Saying I’m better than that. Not better than them, no, They clearly are winning, And I couldn’t compete if I tried. But I mustn’t get low If I want to keep grinning – I mustn’t give in to my cynical side.
The skilful exploit the thing they do, Create a buzz, With even better times to come. Now the world’s not fair, it’s true, It never was, But is success then zero-sum ? You always told me, don’t despise, Don’t bitch and sleight – To be myself, and not some copycat. But dammit, it’s so hard to rise Above the spite, It’s so hard to be better than that.
Don’t snub them, don’t hate them, Don’t read the bad press, Don’t seek out their scandal, don’t kiss them and tell. But call them, and truely congratulate them For their great success Which they handle so well. I can hear your voice admonishing me For unworthy bile And poisonous chat. I hate that you’re right, but we must let it be – So paste on a smile And be better than that.
I want to scream, and curse my fate, And spit their names – But dammit, I can’t give in now – It hurts to be considerate, But paranoid games Are indulgences that I cannot allow. Don’t suck-up and don’t condemn, Let it go, Don’t measure myself with where they’re at. I’ll never be better than them, I know, But at least I can be better than that.
Reflections on the Imperial War Museum’s Great War Gallery
Is the purpose of a museum To tell a story or show-off its wares ? Poking around the bowels of Bedlam, I started to question theirs. Crammed-in from a lack of space, (A bit like the trenches, but only a bit), I started to notice the absences, The parts they couldn’t manage to fit – The lack of horses, for instance, Or the lack of Colonial troops in the ranks, Or the life in the Jerry’s trenches, Or even that much about the Yanks. It was, in the end, not a history, But a series of stories of artefacts – More could be added, but as modern props, With the sense-of-fakeness this attracts. The trouble, perhaps, was with the curators One hundred-plus years ago, Collecting what was seen as significant So soon after the show. We might now wish they’d chosen diff’rent, And the future might want diff’renter yet – But if they ain’t got it, they cannot display it, So this is the War that we get.
We, the onlookers, dressed for Summer, Less of a troop and more of a pack. Shins and forearms and heads uncovered – Only the jackdaws are dressed in black. Partly honouring, partly gawking, English voices amiably talking, Not many present are younger than fifty – One or two pause to read the plaque.
Officials in blazers, though we’re well-behaved. Squaddies’ fatigues, their shoulders say Dutch, Though I swear their “left-right-left” is in English – The crowd wear no medals – would that be too much ? The towers of names are columns of debt, Bearing down, by rank before alphabet, In a random sample, I look for my own In the Surreys and sappers and serjeants and such.
Suddenly, a hush, an announcement by speaker, Telling we must not talk or applaud. A trio of buglers – was that the Last Post ? Then a soldier steps up, a little over-awed. “They shall grow not old” he reads, His accent heavy, and yet succeeds To draw from us a shared Amen: “We shall remember them”, these Brits abroad.
The bugles again, and wreaths are laid, The squad march off in the evening sun, And suddenly ev’rything melts into chatter – We mill for a while, but the service is done. The road reopens, the traffic drives through, We pose for a final selfie or two, But we’ve far too many atrocities to remember, To focus on only one.
What ho ! I’m Ali, Born in Cairo – True-blue British, doncha know ? Like squire Sanjay – Mumbai-bred, As English as a phone box red. And then there’s Chang, From County Down, By bowler hat and Chinatown. And Elzbieta, Glasgow gal, As fish-and-chips as any pal, And Welsh Pierre Of Montreal, So fluent in the bat-and-ball. The best of British, Tweeds and cap – As much as any other chap.
The Nazis used to be quite rare, With few who earned the name – But now it seems they’re ev’rywhere And free speech is to blame ! These random people on the net Who think they get a say – I call them out as fascists, yet Their views leap by the day I put them down, but still them come, Replete with facts and stats. I can’t believe how many scum Are lurking in the chats. They should be rounded up, the lot, And left to rot in Hell – And if you disagree, a spot Gets found for you, as well…
I fully admit, I don’t understand This waiting in line. Hours and hours, as if it’s a test, Come rain or shine, To be a part of history, they say, To mark the moment – To prove themselves her loyal subjects ?, Or maybe beg atonement ?
I fully admit, I don’t understand, As the World looks on – We’re not all doing this !, I cry, Till my voice has gone. I scoff and rant and pity them, But I’m one of a very few – And nobody’s lis’ning to me, of course, They’re all watching the queue.
I fully admit, I don’t understand, And I never will. I hope this brings about a change – No more standing still. But right now, the status is in the quo, The ink won’t leave the pen. I’ve never felt so alien To my fellow countrymen.
And so it begins, the Toady Race, The public performance of grief – Saccharine and suffocating, Preaching your True Belief ! Posters declaiming official tears, Tributes gushing with pomp. Change the stamps and coins and anthem – Such a jolly romp ! Get that sobbing good and loud, And really have a bawl ! Hope your knees are in good shape For the curtsy and the crawl. Show yourself sufficiently sad For ev’ry arse-licked toast – Bow and scrape and bob and tug Till the knighthood’s in the post.
Vive la République !
In other news, I see we’re going to get a bank holiday for the funeral. But we will continue not to receive a bank holiday for Election Day. Priorities, I guess…
Rhyming Couplets 