Another atrocity, another round of blame, With the righties claiming they’re all the same, And the lefties burying their heads in their guilt, And our knee-jerk laws that are jerry-built. Another outrage, another assault, And we all us know who’s really at fault, But none of us will say – Mohammad. And Jesus. And Shiva. And Yahweh. And the dozens of others, monsters all – Let’s stop the worship, let them fall. Just why are we honouring the afterglow From the morals of how many centuries ago ? But no, don’t ban them, not a single sect – Just stop any pretence of honour or respect. Laugh at their gods, like we did before, To Zeus and Baal and Ra and Thor.
The tallest, broadest sycamore in Dorset Is a stately tree – Beloved by Lords and Parliament, A pillar of society – He’s tended by The National Trust, As English as can be, In a village with a funny name, And a bloody history.
Yet sycamores are not a native, Bringing European fruits To challenge all the local trees With non-conforming shoots. These upstarts will not know their place, Their seeds are new recruits, And down into the bedrock They have planted creeping roots.
Yet, for all their canopy may shield, And union hold fast, They do not live so long, these trees, Their shelter cannot last. And though the status quo may praise, When safely in the past, They’ll gladly chop his children down And root him out at last.
‘Sycamore‘ is a restless word. It appears to have started life in Hebrew, before the Greeks noticed how much it coincidentally sounded like their words for fig-mulberry. From there it made its way via Latin and French to English, where it was applied to a newly-introduced species of European maple tree. Confusingly, the contemporeous authors of the King James Bible used it several times to refer to the original fig tree. And then the Americans took the word and slapped it on a type of plane tree quite unrelated to either (although in their partial defence, the leaves of the plane do look a very maple-like, as even Carl Linneus noted in his name Acer pseudoplatanus). The one thing the three trees seem to have in common is their shade-giving spread.
Meanwhile, it is also a surname – apparently deriving from the village of Siglemere near Bramford in Suffolk, from *sīcel ‘small stream’ + mere ‘pool’. So in seems that my eight-year old self was quite wrong to insist that they were called sycamores because their seed-cases were shaped like sickles…
Deep in the palace, centre of her nest, The bloated Queen holds court. She pops out underlings, spreading her essence Who scuttle-out backwards from her regal presence. Safely cocooned from the drones and the rest, And only meeting with the better sort – And she fills-up her hive with honeypots of gold, While expendable subjects shiver in the cold.
Britons, do your duty ! Prop-up the status quo ! Bow to our pirate booty We pillaged long ago. Plebs and oiks and hoi pilloi, Respect who runs the show – You won’t get far as a barrow boy, It’s down to who-you-know.
So choke on bunting, Drown on gushing, Progress-stunting, Freedom-crushing, We know the state’s a travesty, But one in which we’re very rich – So gawd bless her majesty, To whom our fortunes hitch.
For she’s the thread within the stitch-up, She’s the empire in the kitch-up, Casts her glamour to bewitch-up, All across the British Isles. She’s blue in blood and politics, Behind-the-scenes to rig the fix – Then waving for the latest pics, All innocence and smiles.
Britons, do your duty ! Bail-out our busted banks, And curtsy to our snooty From your starved and unwashed ranks. Jocks and Taffs and chippie Chavs, And all you bolshy cranks – Just be content with what you have, And show some proper thanks.
With boot-licking, Forelock-tugging, Heel-clicking, Flag-hugging. It’s both a farce and tragedy, A dirty-money laundromat – So gawd bless her majesty The lizard in the hat.
For she’s the face upon the money, She’s the accent in the plummy, She’s the knighthood in the chummy, All across the British Isles. And after her, we get her son, And on and on till kingdom come – You’d better learn, that’s how it’s done, So tighten-up those smiles.
I freely admit that I was feeling pretty angry when I wrote this. I have taken a calmer take here. And although I’m no fan of flag-hugging, neither do I totally despise it either, as I’ve laid out here and here.
The Victorians built with columns and arches and pride – Constructed with confidence, gilded and polychrome, Moulded with ornament makes for a jolly home, Tailored by craftsmen on every side. From terrace to semi, from basement to sky, With hands on lapels and their chins held high.
The Post-War built with concrete and brutal and slab – Constructed in anguish, subconsciously thinking It’s all we deserve – the piss-stained and stinking, In a hellscape of Marxists, the grim and the drab. From Park Hill to Gorbals, from Mersey to Tyne, The more the cement, so the more the decline.
Through the village of Longbourn, the undead shuffle, The unemployed and the destitutes. The Luddites who moan in a rustic muffle, Back from Napoleon without any boots. Mr Bennett says he can’t even hear them, So alien is his world to theirs, But they’re getting restless, threatening mayhem – What if it spreads to the staff downstairs ? Don’t worry, Lizzie, here’s bold Mr Darcy With wealth that’s been stripped from the backs of the poor, He knows how to whip should the rabble gets arsey, And put them back down when they dare ask for more. Crush all their groups, and deport the whole crew, This seething horde of the unwashed masses. Best wipe them all out like befell Peterloo – Or the balls overrun with these jumped-up lasses.
When not ignoring the cruelty of the upper classes, Jane Austen liked to describe them at leisure over here.
The Illiminati is very real, But it won’t be found in smoke-filled rooms. It lurks in the back of every mind – Subconsciously, it roots and blooms. It inducts us before we can even speak, And follows us into our tombs. There is no central authority, But the ghost of Tradition silently looms.
All of us, yes, ev’ry single one of us, Carries a cabal at the back of their thoughts – We feel at home with People Like Us, We all do, like we’re cheering-on sports. But maybe, if we can recognise this, Then we needn’t feel so vaguely frightened – With a little patience, we’ll muddle through together, And finally be Enlightened.
Incidentally, the original Bavarian Illuminati’s goals were (according to Wikipedia) “to oppose superstition, obscurantism, religious influence over public life, and abuses of state power” No word on how they would ‘conspire’ to achieve this, but if by open persuasion then they sound like my kind of guys ! Unfortunately, the Catholic Church saw them as the Red Scare, and suppressed them.
But I freely admit to continuing the colloquial slander here.
Bottled water ? What a skeeving, What an tosser, what a waste – A plastic-spewing aqui-thieving, Just to get the same damn taste ! Ever since the Romans dreamed Of aquaducts of running water, Engineers have turned their streams Into a torrent, piped to order. Teeth are whiter, homes are cleaner, Cholera and lead are gone – Footprints smaller, gardens greener – Thrown away for Evian ! Hipsters sip ’em, yuppies neck ’em, Horrified by simple tap. The only brand I drink is Peckham – Piss-off Perrier, you’re full of crap !
Rumour, gossip, and have-you-heard Are back with a careless, venomous word. Scurrilous whispers have their way – They’re good enough for Salem and good enough today. So who needs doubt or burden of proof, When the tales are better than the boring truth ? When even liberals are mongering fears, With two-faced lattes and schadenfreud beers, And even the press has dropped its mask Of public int’rest, and sunk to the task. Rumour, gossip, and feathers-and-tar Has shown us all for the shits we are. That’s you. Yes, you. With your bleeding heart, You’re ev’ry bit the hypocrite as any old fart, You Guardian readers, as catty as The Sun – A few lives ruined, but you’ve had your fun.
Rhyming Couplets 