Category Archives: Politics


Donald Trump, Donald Trump
you inflammatory chump
you have told all the Muslims to go take a jump
the Mexicans too ‘cos their food makes you trump
don’t start on us atheists, we’ll give you a thump

Donald Trump, Donald Trump
did your head take a bump
did some angry young foreigner give you a clump
you should cheer the fuck up ‘cos you give me the hump
do you dream this shit up while you’re taking a dump

Donald Trump, Donald Trump
you’re a miserable grump
just sit quietly down, and try not to flump
it’s tricky I know if you’re prone to be plump
be less like the Grinch, and more Forrest Gump.

#DonaldTrump #donotbebonkers

Letter To Brezhnev

Dear Mr Brezhnev, I know you’re deceased,
As is your mate Mr Nixon
The two of you saw that the world was policed
With a dollop of nuclear friction.

I would stand at my window and look to the East
Expecting the missiles of doom
But that wasn’t the worst of it, not in the least
As I stood there alone in my room.

After some time I’d convince my poor brain
That the world would survive one more day
Then I’d climb into bed feeling physically drained
And sometimes I might even pray.

And I’m just getting warm, and I start to relax
As my eyes are beginning to close
But my rational thinking is showing some cracks
And there’s ice on the end of my toes.

I leap out of bed, and I look to the West
Now I’m waiting for missiles from Nixon
And I’m freezing to death and incredibly stressed
I think I may have an affliction.

I glance to the East again, changing my mind
Being bombed by the Yanks doesn’t sit well
But it seems, Mr Brezhnev, that you weren’t inclined
To waste any weapons on Whitwell.

After what seems like hours I get back into bed
And I try not to think radiation
Though I’m still not convinced that you don’t want me dead
Which causes me great trepidation.

Perhaps it’s all over, and London’s no more
And Moscow and New York and Rome
And nothing will be as it had been before
Though I seem to be safe here at home.

So I start to nod off, Mr Brezhnev, I’m going
Now I’m sure you won’t kill me tonight
And I think I can sleep well, now that I’m knowing
The risk of explosion is slight.

I’m nodding off now and my breathing has slowed
My anxiety’s less keenly felt
As my nuclear worries all start to offload
And the ice on my toes starts to melt.

I’m going, I’m nodding, I’m starting to doze
My heart rate is somewhat diminished
And now there’s some feeling once more in my toes
And my Russian anxiety’s finished.

Then suddenly: BANG! There’s a new kid in town
The sockets downstairs are ablaze
We are all going to die, for the house will burn down
Why does death come in so many ways?

So I sneak out of bed and down two flights of stairs
Taking care to avoid all the creaks
If there were a God he would answer my prayers
I’ve been doing this nonsense for weeks.

So I check in the kitchen, the sitting room too
Though I know this obsession is folly
And I climb the stairs quietly, two steps by two
Convinced that I’m quite off my trolley.

Now the dining room’s all of a blaze
So I’m off down the stairs again: just one final check
It’s madness – I hope it’s a phase.

It wasn’t of course, I’m still lying awake
And inclined to obsessively think
It’s not an addiction that I can forsake
Except with the help of the drink.

So you see Mr Brezhnev, it wasn’t your fault
(Though we don’t need those nuclear rockets)
My worryguts thinking won’t come to a halt
Banning bombs or electrical sockets.

Last Of The Mohicans

I don’t think he is thinking straight
His syrup’s made him hottish
And that can happen in the sun
To men whose genes are Scottish

He can’t abide these immigrants
Syrian or others
Some of them are children
And they’re coming with their Mothers

He says that he would send them back
If he gets into power
Which ill behoves a candidate
Who lives atop a tower

I wonder if he’d do the same
With Mexicans or Greek’uns
Or men whose ancestors were slaves
Or, perhaps, Mohicans?


Beware the pure bred xenophobe
His rage is quite frenetic
He might not like it if you probe
His heritage – genetic
His family have been here
Since the melting of the ice
Avoiding nasty foreigners
To keep their bloodline nice.

He hates the bloody Romans
And the Angles and the Jutes
And the Saxons and the Vikings
With their tendency to loot.
He hates the dreaded Normans
Though they bravely took their chance
In truth he isn’t very fond
Of anything from France.

He doesn’t mind the Indians
He wishes they’d come sooner
As he’s partial to their Tarka Dhal
And Vegetable Bhuna
For centuries the xenophobe
Was desperately in need
Of stimulated taste buds
Instead of boiled swede.

He detests the poor old Hugenots
Abhors the bloomin’ Jews
And Somali’s are all pirates
He has seen it on the news
He doesn’t like those aeroplanes
Or ocean going boats
Enabling all these foreigners
To circumvent his moat.

“It’s come to such a sorry state,”
He’s telling all his mates
“I’m thinking about selling up
And moving to the States.”
The irony is lost on him
So let’s not point it out
For reasoning is futile;
Xenophobia’s about.

Beware the pure bred xenophobe
His Mother was a virgin
What madness to have random tribes
Genetically mergin’?

The Word You Were Looking For Is REFUGEE

the word you were looking for
it doesn’t have a synonym
it’s not the same as
(prob’bly economic)
nor the same as
(which can be sardonic)

there’s a picture of a girl
in a pretty spotted dress
she is lying on a beach
and her hair is a mess
where was it taken?
somewhere by the Med
but it doesn’t matter now
for now she is DEAD

just to be clear then
(the clues in the name)
means ‘one who seeks refuge’
from the ravages of war
or persecution
seeking compassion
the cup of human kindness
a peaceful resolution
to a bad situation

you reap what you sow you know
with your immoral polity
waging war remotely
through stupid ‘foreign policy’
so wave after wave of them
fleeing from the fighting
are coming round to your house
don’t be so frightened

and above all else
it might be sporting
if we gave them safe passage
and some accurate reporting

just to be clear again
the girl in the spotted dress
dead on a foreign beach
drowned in the sea
she wasn’t a migrant
she was not an immigrant
she was somebody’s daughter
and a