a one hundred and twenty fourth new poem ... 'breakfast blubber'

As the camera cut

Back to Studio Boohoo

The two

Whimpering presenters

Were caught hankies out,

Trousers down, in

A piteous metaphorical 

Paddling pool of

Their own bathetic

Blubber.   

a one hundred and twenty third new poem ... 'breakfast sofa'

The puppy weed all

Over the BBC Breakfast

Sofa and then, 

Moments later, did its

Second business on an

Olympian’s shoe.

a one hundred and twenty second poem ... 'owen smith rally'

Owen Smith surveyed the crowd…

Not a bad turn out

He thought to himself,

Faintly proud.

Not many women, no,

But a couple of truant school

Children, a stray goat;

Comrade Stan, who he’d paid

To attend, giveaway free

Ice-cream... his ice-cream van,

A man with no less zeal

Fixing a puncture on the rear

Wheel  

– though perhaps not entirely there

On his own volition… 

Some local

Press, a retired paediatrician,

Well at least one local

Press, 

Owen guessed,

And then a dosed up
ex-Pfizer colleague,
Face twisted

In some kind of

Unfathomable distress. 

a one hundred and twenty first new poem ... 'legacy'

Dave (and Jesus)

Wept as the Commons

Gave

A standing ovation

And the BBC

Ran on rotation

Headlines proclaiming

Him the Greatest Briton in

The history of the nation, since

King Alfred or from whence

Records began

And all fifteen of his

Fans from Prestwick to

Camberwell 

Met up in

Bury St Eds to raise

A toast at the Nutshell,

Little England’s smallest

Pub, featuring a

Mummified cat,

A pig's head in a hat 

And

Severely devalued

Sterling notes

Smeared on

The walls.

a one hundred and twentieth new poem ... 'post brexit'

Post Brexit

Boris Johnson

Was found

Luring cute

Tabby cats and

Andrex puppies

To their grisly and

Premature deaths

With the promise

Of what were in

Reality

Vegetarian sausages.

a one hundred and nineteenth new poem ... 'last days'

Dave surveyed

Number 10

For the last time,

A glass of port

In between his

Rotund forefinger

And thumb - Sam

Cam was getting the

Kids ready and

George, pastry

Faced, was searching

For his BB gun.

a one hundred and eighteenth new poem ... 'chicken coup'

Eagle adjusted her

Donald Trump novelty

Wig with

Nail polished

Pigeon claws,

Paused before

Hastily snaffling

A collection of stale

Bread crumbs from

Betwixt her fake

Pigeon breasts.

When she returned

To the War Room,

Benn was still

Searching for

His glasses and

Hunt sat idly

Leafing through a 

Back edition of

Chicken Whisperer.