a one hundred and twenty ninth poem... 'imagine'

Just imagine if ol' Donald hadn't won...

Just imagine being bossed by a woman!

Eight years of getting nagged to find a job

Thank heavens for ol' Donald, Christ God -

And after Hillary we'd have had a Gay

Ruling this here nation, no sir, no way!

And what if following that we'd got a Trans

Presiding o'er this fair an' pleasant land?!

Just imagine if ol' Donald didn't win...

Just imagine havin' to take it on the chin!

Mexican rapists an' Muslim guns

Chasin' around our daughters an' our sons,

Tree huggers every corner of the block

Makin' out we're a stupid laughing stock...

  So thank Christ God ol' Donald didn't lose

Or we'd never have gotten the chance to air our views

Charge your glass, raise a toast, put out more flags

 Tell the Indians next door to pack their bags -

Amen!

a one hundred and twenty eighth new poem... 'hillary'

When the fate of her campaign 

Became clear to Hillary,

Tbf she didn't complain - asked

Bill to steer her to the distillery.

a one hundred and twenty seventh new poem... 'burn, baby burn'

So, Donald Trump has won -

Set the controls for the heart of the sun!

a one hundred and twenty sixth new poem ... 'southern rail'

Southern Rail – the franchise

For your ordinary

Common-sense kind of man,

What’s the point of bloody

Sitting anyway, when we’ve two

Churchillian legs to stand?

Air-conditioning is for

Conchies and working toilets

Should be a treat… but you’re

All a load of fucking whingers –

What else d’you want, passenger

Ejector seats?!

Good old Southern Rail – the

Franchise for you ordinary

Common-sense kind of chap,

Bullet trains, TGVs are all

Foreign made death traps.

What could be better than

Trundling sedately through the English

Countryside, or staring at a

Bramble hedge, a brick

Yard, waiting (hours) for a ride?   

So here’s to Southern Rail –

We decent men hope you make

It through
Your current malaise

To better days,
We few

We very few!  

a one hundred and twenty fifth new poem ... 'bank holiday, newquay'

Grey rain clouds - lost - roll

Across Newquay sound,

No souls around;

6AM silent on the streets

Sticky with spilled Radler

Save for seagulls

Scavenging at tits/bits off a passed
Out Teenage Paddler,

Sicked up shots of Jaeger,

Stilton Cornish Pasty,

The whole drab town vastly

Slumbering smashed in

Lumbering wet dreams,

Broiling, roiling, oiling

Puke encrusted pillows

With grease from fish,

Chips, fingers, unwashed n' braided hair;

A stained curtain billows in

The fetid sea-salt-sweat

Melched air - at the Escape

Surf Hostel Europa

Not a single nostril twitches,

No one has life enough

To care.

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.