The English and Welsh have really outdone themselves on the stupidity stakes today, and, considering the age profile of the leave voters, have heaped yet more evidence on the pile for the baby-boomers being “the worst generation.”


Well done Britain,

hope you’re proud of what you’ve done,

every man and woman.

Say goodbye to the NHS.

Weren’t you listening to the Eaton Mess?

Gove wrote a book about it,

and like an ignorant twit,

you lot went for bust,

and decided that this was a man you could trust.

Or was it Worzel Gummidge?

perhaps it was that chummy,

haunted ventriloquist’s dummy,

that sold you on the economic game of chicken,

with which you’re now stricken.

The effects of which will affect us all,


but we shall stand and alone you will fall.

So enjoy your fleeting dream,

and your callous Eatonian regime.


Panama Papers

Is anyone really surprised by the Panama Papers? I’m not, though the mischief Putin’s been up to is an extreme example, the antics of David Cameron and the wealthy in the west implicated in these documents show that while presenting a stern face to tax avoiders like Jimmy Carr the wealthy and politically powerful have been prising open tax regulations to allow this nonsense. Now watch them sacrifice a few pawns and leave these regulations wide open.


The wealthy avoid taxes,

and as our indignity waxes,

they will sacrifice pawns,

waiting on public yawns.

Then the Panama Papers,

will disappear like vapors.

Systems which allow evasion,

will stand without alteration.

Then obscured from sight,

will be strengthened by the right.

While we all sit distracted,

by how Miley Cyrus acted,

because we do not care,

about what is just or fair.

Just simple distraction,

and easy satisfaction.

We get what we deserve,

no wonder they have the nerve,

to avoid paying their dues,

with rampant tax abuse.

No worry of states’ financing,

august brings Strictly Come Dancing,

X-Factor and Great British Bake Off.

So keep feeding at the trough,

while public services crumble,

because the exchequers takes are humble.

So stay huddled up in your squats,

the money’s better spent on their yachts.



Simple Solutions

For every problem there’s a simple solution,

that’s what they always say.

Further thought only leads to pollution,

and areas of muddled grey.


If a TV’s acting up just hit it,

it worked when TVs had tubes.

A little tap wont break it,

and leave you looking like feckless boobs.


And if the middle east’s acting up,

just fire some missiles.

No need to look closeup,

at the effects of explosive projectiles.

It clearly worked before.

The answer’s so simple, how could it fail?

Dropping bombs will end all war,

I think we’ve hit it on the nail.


Like a man who’s been to  every woman in the club.

Danced up and whispered ‘suck my dick.’

Been scratched, slapped and punched in the mug

and not realised it isn’t a good line to pick.

Dropping bombs is not a solution,

merely dick waving policies,

breeding Islamist revolution,

and rarely secular democracies.


This policy of appearance and blind alliance,

fueled by ambivalence, will only lead to death and Islamist defiance.


Petals of The Poppy

i. She loves me

Come, let us glorify the war dead.
No mention of wives sleeping in empty bed,
the rivers of tears mothers shed,
or the lives they could have lead.

Wear you now the poppy red.
Repeat the lies politicians said,
in newspapers young men read,
and to death were easily lead.

Forget you now how they bled,
the fear and dread,
as on corpses young men thread.
Bellies full of mouldy bread.

Hear you now the worms their bodies fed?
See you now the destroyed homestead,
where happy farmers once were wed,
torn asunder by falling lead?

ii. She loves me not.

Come how valiant the war dead,
as we forget only the poor bled.
Not son of Prince but that of pauper,
ever gave their lives in pointless slaughter.

Wealthy sons drinking Brandy and rum.
Tapping their glasses to the beat of the artillery drum.
Cosseted far from harm,
the lordlings cried “never disarm.”

Over the trenches the ploughman’s son,
walks nervously towards an enemy gun,
as soldiers flow in waves.
Reluctant to their early graves.

Irish lives sold to buy a nation’s freedom,
young men joined the foreigner’s legion.
By guile and lies they were betrayed,
in the earth in Flanders their bodies laid.

Bodies lay side by side with English brothers,
those of Welsh, Scot and many others.
Urged forth by friendly guns,
fight bravely, for we shoot he who runs.

iii. Where Shall I Lie?

Come now let us forget those that survived,
returned home to lives deprived.
Men twisted by wartime trauma,
now treated as less than fauna.

Dreams of artillery fire and mustard gas,
marred the nights of the underclass.
Now too savage for general society,
they were sent next door to earn notoriety.

Set loose upon a civilian population,
war-scarred men inflicted devastation.
In every shadow seeing the German Hun,
whether truth be mother, child or brother’s son.

The same lordlings sit drinking brandy and rum,
waiting for their neighbours to fall under thumb.
Removed from the lives of their fellow man,
ignoring suffering reclined on the divan.

iv In A Nameless Plot

Now their grandsons run the kingdom,
also knowing nothing to fear from.
Deaths of common men they glorify
but never will they meet their eye.

Setting policies to attack the poor,
thin them out through poverty, not through war.
They claim the need for austerity,
that there’s no room today for charity.

Yet we see unfair redistribution of wealth
given to banks, taken by stealth.
The painted whore of quantitative easing,
to Etonians is disproportionately pleasing.

“Britons need to work like the US or China”,
as greed bloated CEOs wipe away saliva.
Wage conditions tantamount to slavery,
ignore when banks act unsavoury.

They laud the idea of a living wage,
while promises on tax credits they renege.
A war against the lower and middle class,
Treating the public as an unwashed mass.

Men and women poisoned by wealth and power,
set scornful glances from their ivory tower.
Prop their pillows on the suffering of the poor,
listen close, they only ever say “more, more, more”

A Strange Kind Of Prime Minister

He steps forth nervous,
all eyes watching,
he hopes it’ll be worth it,
through the jeers and back slapping.

Room all a swirl,
the effects of Dom Perignon and soda.
Lights blur in pearl,
as he steadies nerves with vodka.

The older boy reclined in his throne,
strokes the pig’s head that calls his lap home.

He swallows his pride,
takes a step forward.
Undoes his fly,
turns his eyes wall-ward.

With a grunt of effort,
thrusts at the mouth.
Finds no comfort
as he hits the snout.

The room erupts.
The laughter is raucous.
As a voice interupts,
yelling “sir porkcus!”

This time takes aim,
meets piggy’s eye.
Swallows his shame
and takes another try.

He darts forth holding his member.
Telling himself “never surrender!”

Lands himself right between the lips.
Announced to the room with a shudder of the hips.

Tidying his trousers,
thinks all is private.
Should be wary that adders
will with vengeance reveal it.

When you fuck the poor
people will know it,
and when you turn scarlet,
will want more of it.

So David Cameron my old mucker,
this is why I laugh that you’re a pig fucker!