the seventeen million,
really f*cked it up,
by returning your decision
to vote f*ck off;
there will be no cash
tossed from that bus,
instead we will ooze
xenophobic puss:
Now long-term unwell,
because of your vote,
this country is broken,
your choice is no joke.


Collective Nouns, 2016.

A stream of migrants,
a flood of immigrants,
a stride of itinerants,
a slip of transients,
a confusion of foreigners,
a wave of incomers,
a steal of vagrants,
a thrust of aliens,
a landing of outlanders,
a gust of drifters,
a surge of unknowns,
a trespass of expatriates.


Grudge Match

No new-built Britannia,
no tax-pirate ship:
A small piece of Britain!
It’ll cost zillions of quids!

A gift for us all!
Worth every penny!
But pounds buy less,
unsure how many:

A floating gin palace?
Build no more yachts,
we’re pre-Brexit sunk,
we have spent the pot;

now England’s stuck
at Scottish loggerheads,
build deathly Successors,
load the warheads,

aim them at Holyrood,
and prepare for launch,
Eton mess made good
by Boris’ first war.


Pooh Bear Did Sh*t in the Woods


My last poem
about David Cameron:
Sadly, ‘Pooh’ will never
come back again:

Off to ponder,
To wander the forests,
with his wife – Piglet;

Along the sandy paths
of the Algarve,
To plan their future –
not too hard,

Because, thinking a lot
taxes Pooh,
Unlike the Revenue,
who will still tax you;

So wave ‘bye-‘bye
to the short-shirted bear,
he left us in sh*t
piled up to.. [Go to first line]

Bluebirds Over

A programme of contrails for Eastbourne,
held over, circled, then the low-flown
aircraft burst through the scuttled wisps of nimbus.

Above the beach of shingle – levelled by pop-up chairs,
and picnic squares, of towels and blankets
(for dads’ brief nap) –

the crowds watch, stiff-necked
by aircraft performing overhead,
deafened by the scream of a Eurofighter.

Mutterings in the afternoon bar
slightly sour the mood,
thick racism in those heat-slowed voices,

and they would rather have Spitfires,
than any recently banked, now gone,
European accord.


We pulled up before
the Brexiters’ gates –
raised higher by
a new bit of fence:

Seeing this barrier,
smiling, she said,
That’ll not halt
the immigrants..

Instead, it transpired,
the fence was raised,
to cage their dog,
not exclude a race.

[Thank you Bella May for the quote]

Pooh Bear Fu*cks Off

Cameron Bear
hummed a light tune,
the last line:
“Hurrah, it’s now through:”

There in Number 10
Piglet he hugged,
(His wife’s inheritance,
[thinks] more than enough!)

“Blue shirts ironed!
I’ve booked flights today!

I’ll Leave Brexit-lump
to the bitch T. May!”


“Let’s give our NHS the £350 million 
the EU takes every week”,

wrote Matthew Elliott,
Chief Executive of Vote Leave,
in his, now removed, tweet.

I am also self-censored,
asked to stop sending
our Brexit-relatives
the bare-bone facts

whilst all the time,
before the vote,
their righteous voices
were quick to scream:

“You can’t persuade me
to change my mind!”
But I never did try:
I couldn’t disprove lies,

until now, and then,
it’s uncomfortable for them,
having broken the future
for our children.