Britannia With Lactating Tits

 

Britannia with her sheltering wings

And constantly lactating tits,

Giving safety, food and things,

To all the world, not just the Brits,

She nurses them through all their ills

And cannot let them fly the nest,

Maternal duties she fulfils,

To her own darlings and the rest,

She doles out cake and sweets and jelly

As if Camilla Batmanghelidgh

Yes England must hug every hoody,

For England is a goody goody,

And needs to show the world the way,

For all the world has gone astray.

And England cannot be the Daddy,

Not the strict and hard papa,

For every man’s some kind of baddy,

Cares naught for what his children are,

Nor what they do, or think or feel,

Nor if they choose to skip a meal,

He cares not where his children play

Hopes they’ll grow up and go away. 

No, England has to be the mummy

Grow the whole world in her tummy,

Britannia with lactating tits,

Loving all the world to bits. 

Soft bigotry of low expectations

It's billowed by hot summer air,

And rides on currents of despair,

Then floats as feather to the ground

And lands as gently, with no sound,

Pretends to soothe not suffocate,

And wants the world to ‘tolerate’.

Comes rolling in towards the finish,

Gently eager to diminish,

Keeping expectations low,

It smothers, lets no talent grow,

Softly, kindly, no harm meaning,

Sweetly, blindly still demeaning.

On Prosthetic Legs And Opinions

The two most stupid examples from the clamping down on free speech in England in recent times have been the Christian woman arrested for praying silently in her head and the protestor arrested for waving his prosthetic leg at the police while airing opinions he had ‘no right whatsoever’ to hold. 

To shake and point prosthetic legs it seems,

Is just as dangerous as posting memes,

Don’t pray, don’t preach, don’t utter lines from hymns,

For doing so while holding certain views,

You did not first acquire from mainstream news,

Makes you a criminal so very vile,

You must be sent to gaol for a while.

When Christians and uni-dexters stand

On their three legs together, they’ll be banned,

Expressing sentiments we disapprove,

Refusing to back down and not to move,

Makes psychopaths like us feel very scared.

Opinions and artificial limbs,

Must not be held together, never aired.

Shopping For Logical Fallacies

 

I went shopping for logical fallacies

Since I felt I should own some myself,

And as I love castles and palaces

‘The Appeal to Tradition’ was first off the shelf,

And though I was almost spoilt for choice,

I decided to give ‘Bring back hanging’ a voice,

And in truth I can’t see any reason,

We shouldn’t, for murder and treason. 

But some people argued and disagreed,

And I felt a great, over powering need,

To sneer in contempt at such people as these,

So I bought an ‘Ad Hominem’ package to please

All those sensible people who feel as I do,

For we are the many and they are the few. 

Though I bought an ‘Appeal to Authority’

To have up my sleeve, just in case,

Although my side are in the majority,

We cannot afford to lose face

So I’ll back up my claim,

For this is not a game,

It is seeking to prove what is true. 

And all those who say that hanging is wrong,

Are potentially terrorist killers, I said,

If you listen you’ll hear the true words of their song,

Saving their own sort is really their thing,

It’s not that they don’t want the innocent dead,

They’re just psychos themselves, who do not wish to swing.

They may look sopping wet with their hearts all a bleeding

And speak of ‘good killers’ such as women ill used,

By violent husbands who raped and abused,

But ignore them, such tactics are very misleading,

I bought one myself, it is called ‘Special Pleading’.

So I’ll say it again we must take up the rope

Else the poor and the needy and those without hope,

Will move on from acts of petty crime,

To more heinous acts, with the passage of time,

Yet now I don’t want this idea to be right.

And feel rather guilty and can’t really cope

For when the assistant was out of sight,

I stashed in my rucksack a ‘Slippery Slope’.

Peter Hitchens Goes Travelling To The Yorkshire Coast

 

I’m not a tourist, make no mistake,

I only go travelling for mind broadening’s sake,

I shan’t go near anything others enjoy,

Don’t count me in with vile hoi polloi,

Don’t call me a ‘Wezzy’ or ‘Come Fuh’Day’,

I’m up here from Oxford for CULTURE, not play,

Though I might take one in at the Theatre Round,

Or nip up to Bempton, where puffins abound,

And spot the lone albatross, doing his thing,

Midst the crowds of more common birds all on the wing,

For I feel that our minds must be truly alike,

Though he glides on the currents and I on my bike.

I’m certain I know what the albatross knows,

By disdaining the ways of his friends and his foes,

He has brought himself fame, made a lonely career,

In this dull, cold, unsuitable northerly sphere.

 

Steinway Clothes

https://youtube.com/playlist?list=OLAK5uy_lDK3KfchGE_fIlPpTUg1DxfJinBqnmuMc&si=UEbxrO1tc8h7lq6F

Your clothes, 

Those cotton jersey pull-ons pile

Upon the long closed Steinway,

While I sort them into T shirts, trousers, sweaters, socks,

Leaning over some great box 

Of ‘baby wipes’ and ‘toilet roll’.

Where once was Chopin, King, John Field,

In garments now you are revealed,

Washed and dried, load after load, 

And who you were, is, on the whole

Lost, except within the spaces,

In the grooves,

Of old LPs 

And on the shiny silver faces

Of more recent, old CDs.

Even memory now moves

Within a childhood long before

You started down the happy road

Of fast becoming who you were.