Trained by the press
to slur ‘Socialist’,
Trained by the press
to slur ‘Socialist’,
Mail on Sunday tripe
I am backing Theresa May.
Let’s get on with the job.”
Thus tweeted Boris J,
refusing to admit
he’s up for
but this country knows
he was the right arse
The exit polls excited us,
off the kids stomped,
I promised to wake them
at six-fifteen (prompt),
with an insecure prediction
their country is strong,
but to the bed I’m afeard
that exit polls are wrong.
There will be a ballot
with outcomes unknown,
but the resulting state
could be one that’ll harm,
it may finally remove
the vestiges of pride
which were the first choice
of the winning side,
that construction of faith,
more real than dead Gods,
off socialist embers
fired after the war.
When you make your mark
it will determine the fate
of the care of your family,
the future price paid.
Each ballot with a cross,
is a kiss for the carers,
a token of love,
for the state which will keep us.
Or leave it, don’t bother,
make a mark for the rich,
and let them get fat
on the illness of kids;
let them turn profits
on dementia, new business,
let them trade shares
in your family’s sickness.
Who is Nick Timothy?
Do you give a toss?
He’s the quiet one –
St Theresa’s soft voice.
Almost Deputy PM,
with no vote or mandate,
he’ll re-draw Conservatism,
tracing over the Left;
aided by Fiona,
the Queen of Press Passes,
but Nick wears the boots,
‘cos he likes to kick arses.
[Published here on The Dangerous Globe]
Dementia Tax is coming,
unless you’re so struck,
then you’re a lucky one,
as you won’t give a f*ck.
Saint Theresa knows what is good for us now –
she sings ‘Hallelujahs’ and takes a low bow
as she cleans the feet of the blessed rich
whilst loosening her grip on their privatised bits
She’s touched The Trump – held the hand of God
and now she is saying Come and buy the lot!
And on Election Day – perhaps in 2022
when they’ve won again – against the too few
you might turn round and look back on this time
and regret the miracles you left behind –
the medicine – the doctors – the freedom to move –
the care for the elderly – state schools improved –
the future for kids – ours without privilege –
the rights we had – to stand up ‘n still rage
When the state that blessed us is sold for our good,
you’ll have no one to trust, except Theresa’s rich gods
Remaindered on Amazon, an unread tome,
that Tory horror story: ‘The Manifesto’.
Launched in Yorkshire (for Gothic effect),
a fiction, or future? You The Reader elects:
The monster, the creature, a clown called ‘May’,
rises from the drains to suck young lives away.
From the wrong side of the tracks our hero steps –
Jeremy shouts about the clowning threats.
Deaf to his warnings (of hospitals sucked dry,
of schools destroyed, of the old left to die),
the constituency of Hereabouts sees only May’s grin,
but you, The Reader, are not taken in:
They flock to the clown’s carnival show
(“the last clown lady was very good you know”).
But Reader, you too, will be dragged on your back,
as this horror story becomes a fact.
The Tory Manifesto, a cliffhanger for the kids?
Is this the future? Will they have to live with ‘It’.
As featured in ‘The Dangerous Globe’ HERE
Kathy spoke for a minute,
it may have been less:
“I’m being serious,
I want you to do
something for us.”
[The most powerful woman, in this reduced state,
rep(lied) through her teeth – not one of them straight.]
I vote for Kathy,
I vote for the traduced.
We’ll remove the ‘Fat Cats’ –
make sure your vote is used.
Original NEWS story here
Amended to ‘Kathy’ 17.05.17 – updated NEWS story here
I will now deny the rich
their pleasured agenda
by switching off the media
by restoring my memories,
to recall how secure
our future once felt
I make these my choices –
I will stand up for the NHS,
I will support state education,
I will seek dignity for the elderly,
I will not let sickness profit,
and I will respect those with less
because I will never be
the one percent, not us,
and the office workers
the once state-maintained,
the f*cking Hard Working
will be screwed, lustrum-long,
by policies born of private pickings,
whelped by Bullingdon boys
and when I wake to them, again,
wearing sneers they call smiles,
with drubbings for the losers,
I’ll know that my cross was counted,
piled, not as high as the winner’s cards,
but, briefly, in that mark, my minority won.