You are supposed to mellow as you get older. I have not. I am barely able to watch the breakfast news any more, for fear of whichever condescending windbag politician is to be wheeled out at 7:30 to trot out the party line. For fear of the rage they will provoke!
So! Today, instead of breakfast news, I am posting my little poemy rant. Enjoy!
Hand him a twitch to wake the bag,
breathe him a wind and watch him blow!
His leathery skin will show no marks,
the flames need fuel and bellows.
Offer him up to breakfast news,
pipe him a phrase and watch him blow!
his spasming mouth will puff and squeal –
the flames are fuelled by bellows.
Now cycle it out to the populace!
Pump up their passions and watch them blow
and blurt on their garrulous timelines; feed
the flames with fuel and bellows.
And when some commission arrives to prise
his apertures open – watch them blow!
Why, empty has nothing to answer for.
The flames need fools and bellows.
This poem was first published in the May 21 edition of Snakeskin: www.snakeskinpoetry.co.uk
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Image by suju-foto from Pixabay
A little poem I wrote upon discovering that Our Beloved Leader messes up his hair before speaking to the press. Glad he has his priorities right. I mean, I’ll grant him, it’s been a quiet month.
A Tousled Boy
This is the hair I used to mess
to win round Nanny. “Oh God bless
that tousled boy,” she used to say
It made the bad stuff go away.
When cricket balls met greenhouse glass,
I’d muss my hair in one quick pass –
“There there,” she’d say. Or, caught pants down
with Daddy’s maid, I’d play the clown –
she’d smile and pass the girl a scone!
It’s different now that Nanny’s gone.
Quite baffling. Take Barnier.
I went FULL RUFFLE. Could not sway
the man. Now even Murdoch seems
immune! The stuff of lurid dreams!
The markets fall, the lorries queue,
I tease each foppish strand askew,
the bodies pile, the untruths stack,
Rees-Mogg is smirking at my back,
the germs mutate. Oh, save me, mop!
Please Nanny? Nanny? Make it stop…
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