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.

In The Wild Garden

 

The nasty boys are playing nasty games

In that nasty rich man’s wild garden, now,

That garden that he barely tends or tames,

Quick Mummy come and help, the day is late,

They have tried to slaughter every sacred cow,

That is, those herds given protected status recently,

Yet they all insist on treating old herds decently,

And fight and shout and cause a dreadful row,

And go in hard and riot and attack us,

When the beasts we say are ready for the knackers,

Having served their purpose, being out of date,

Are rounded up and shot, outside the gate. 

Mummy can you make another play place, 

An allotment, strictly run and rules based,

And put the naughty boys in prison and disgrace,

For this wilderness is not to modern taste,

We liberal progressives are conservatives you see,

We need strict law and order in order to be free.

In This Hour of Darkness

Insomnia has got its grip and here I lie.

And in this hour of darkness, though I try,

I cannot shake the sense that there’s a spy,

Observing what I read and write and say.

It is not God, some other watchful eye,

Peers out at me, more clearly than by day,

And though by night my Twitter screen is black,

And all I read and write is white, I lack

The courage for a true, face-on attack,

So tiptoe quick and knife from round the back.

But this technique does not me satisfy,

I must rebel and honestly defy,

Not let my real nature go astray,

No purpose served when that I quite betray,

I needs must spell things out, not just imply.

So when I see the grey at dawn’s first crack,

I head straight out and on into the flak,

I cannot stop to ponder, hesitate,

I will not bother to suggest, insinuate,

The dawn is here we must have rows, debate.

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.

Pink Light At Twilight ( Rondeau)

 

 At twilight comes this vulgar glow,

Its crass, reductive, for we know

Our children mean much more than this.

Displays of light are quite amiss,

Yet they reveal more than they show

We’ve sunk too deep, been brought too low,

As blood is shed its endless flow,

Is not worth more than so much piss

At twilight.

The nation’s days are numbered, so

We’re dealt each day another blow

 We can’t pretend our lives were bliss

Before we sank in the abyss

And can’t escape, nowhere to go,

At twilight.

A Curly Headed Choir Boy

 Rondeau Redouble

A Curly headed choir boy, how sweet!

He knifed to death three little girls, oh dear!

And now there’s ‘far right’ brawling in the street,

But never mind, I’ve got a good idea.

I’ll clamp down hard, make natives live in fear

Set ‘Big Brother’ over them, till they’re beat,

Restrict their liberty, in all ways interfere.

A curly headed choir boy, how sweet,

A native Welsh boy, good and kind and neat

Has spurred me on to lecture and to sneer

For what else can I do? I can’t retreat,

He knifed to death three little girls, oh dear!

But white man worst! Get out the riot gear,

For Englishmen we know are prone to Tweet.

Their feelings do not count, they’re not sincere,

And now there’s ‘far right’ brawling in the street,

And Human Rights do not apply, these men don’t meet

The strict criteria which says they’re human, for they jeer

And hold diversity’s not strength, which is deceit,

But never mind, I have a good idea,

I’ll bring in facial recognition and be clear

It can’t tell blacks apart yet, nowhere near,

So carry on enriching us in jungles made of concrete

For I’m your friend forever: Two Tier Keir,

Curly headed choir boy.

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.

 

Some of CS Lewis’s Meditation in a Toolshed woven into a poem

I was standing today in the toolshed,

The sun was shining outside,

And through the crack at the top of the door,

There came a beam of light.

From where I stood, that beam so bright,

With the motes of dust floating in it,

Was the most striking thing in the pitch black place,

As it streamed through the gloom at the side of my face,

I was seeing the beam not seeing things by it.

Then I moved and the beam fell onto my eyes,

And then in an instant the scene that I’d seen

Disappeared, though not without trace,

I saw no shed and above all no beam,

But instead, I saw things with it,

At the top of the door, as I’d not seen before,

Inside an irregular cranny,

Green leaves in the breeze on the branches of trees

And beyond that, far distant, the sun in the sky.

And in that moment I knew

Something new, and something wise,

About a particular point of view,

And how looking along a beam at the motes

And seeing by the beam in my eye,

Give two very different impressions, both of them possibly true. 

Yet it was not with Mathew 7:3

That I pondered on different ways that we see,

I thought of more recent thinking habits,

And how we seem frightened admitting

Our view is purely our own

And when we’re caught in the glare we stare

And freeze, blinking like so many rabbits,

For fear our peers will sneer and groan

And point out how it’s unfitting

For our sort to approve

Of this unscientific thinking,

We’ve grown scared of what we can’t ‘prove’

But what is specific to science

That has such faith and puts such reliance

On the outside perspective, alone?

For has science itself not shown

Or shed it’s brilliant light 

Changing the way we say what is known

By proving the particle and the wave

Are simultaneous ways to behave?

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.