What do we want?
When do we want it?
What are we going to
Do about it?

Just get through today
Keep the vultures at bay
Got the Man’s bills to pay

Oh, when, then?
But when, then?

“Tomorrow! Tomorrow!
And after I’ve borrowed”

“What do we want?
When do we want it?
What are we going to
Do about it?

War’s here to stay
We have battles in play
Better kneel down and pray

But when, then?
Oh, when, then?

“Tomorrow! Tomorrow!
And after the sorrow”

“What do we want?
When do we want it?
What are we going to
Do about it?

Time to obey
Still the Will
Kill the way
Shed your say
Blindly follow
The madness of men

When, then?
Oh, when, then?

“Tomorrow! Tomorrow!
And after the hollow”


Lord of the Chance

I danced since the dawning of the feudal drum
I pranced on the hopes in the lives of everyone
I came down from Nanny and parental gifts
My privilege is my benefit

Prance, then, if you are just like me
I am a Lord of the Chance, said he
And I’ll bleed you all, whoever you may be
Unless you’re better at the dance than me

I pranced from nurs’ry to the Bullingdon
I danced to the tune that despises everyone
I thrashed and trashed whatever took my eye
I’ll feel entitled ’til the day I die

Chance, then, is what happened to me
For I am a real lucky S.O.B.
And I’ll fleece you all, wherever you may be
You’re a dancer now for mine and me

I danced myself into a government
By feigned integrity and common sense
Now I’ll cut you down so I can leap up high
A thieving zombie living on a lie

Glance, then, look askance all you please
I and my chums are enhanced with ease
As we bleed you dry, for our prosperity
We’re the DJs now of your mobility

We prance with the City and the CEOs
We dance with the lobbyists and sovereign crows
We glance at the citizens and give no toss
We’re busy building your serfdom cross

Dance, then, for patriarchal glee
Preserving the wealth of the First Degree
And we’ll lead you all, with Tory homilies
For we’re the Lords of the Chance, said he.

Some men

Some men are born already great
As though Destiny itself had hands
As much as any Fortune’s birth.
Some men achieve a greatness by
The virtue of their standing strength
As evidence of living worth. Some
Men have greatness thrust upon them,
Weighted by the cloak of obligation –

Rise and fall
By want
And wont

So dons projected expectations.

Some men continue on long after death:
Their deeds; their words – a breath –
A pledge of new-born consciousness or
Sharp reminder, timely to the lapsed;
A point of poignant place for the forsaken
And the doubting edge (It isn’t over yet).

[Others, not so great, beget fine words
With ease upon the passing of great
Spirits: hopeful to receive vicarious,
Reflective praise – all day, an exercise
In character admiration and seeming
Political politeness.
It is not. It is the due respect they could
Not then, in life afford, for fear their own
Position be uncovered as a fraud.]

You built that

See all this conflict?
The perpetual invasion
And modern, primitive accumulation?
All those bloody, mindless wars?
You built that with your hubris.
See all the poor?
This, too is at your door:
You built that with Aeonian
Greed over –

How many years..?
A thousand?

It would seem eternal
That so few
So mighty –
So self-righteous with
Paternal declarations of
Concern – be so can-do.

What do we learn
But that the pyre in your hearts
Is kindled by the face of need
As you feed yours.

See that arbitrary theft
Of Human sustenance
That beckons in demise?
You built that on abuse of
Earthly grace and bounty

Once abundant
Now abundant lies.

How much is left now,
Even as you scorn
The shrinking natural base
In favour of a lab-born artifice?
See that path to Precipice?

You built that.

What? You didn’t mean it?
Didn’t see it?
How, Caucasian Eagle?
The altar of extortion
Is re-hallowed daily in your temple.
You, who hail a monumental myth
Upon the sacrifice of others
To a cruel and ornamental pact;
Who cheapen Life yet raise
The very price of it..

You built that.

Pity us all, Lib Dems, perhaps the most…

Pity us all, Lib Dems, perhaps the most, as we glance right on past them in hope their survival does not stand a ghost as they chance to enhance their positioning stance like those Old Time Revivalists.

Listing to lusting like magnetised sawdust the yellow-swelled fellows, so thrusting for power, adapt self-awareness to use in self-service, preserving Establishment’s carnage-filled tower. And thus is the uncanny Danny well-managed by Ivory Nanny and Davey, (the hazy Ed) government shill, by his wafer-thin reason, caves in to the pleasing of Energy’s poisonous pill. Poor Laws, to applause, gets his flaws in a muddle while Browne – who did not and is Toryfied rock through and through – was removed of his crown in the favour of Baker, transported to trouble and please-do befuddle as Kramer-no-shame, drives the train to appeasement and Lamb has been easing the privatised health drain. Poor Swinson limps on just as Sarah unTeathers and light-as-a-Featherstone fails to attack both the slack in developed thought and the sad lack of the women in her party’s recycled camp.

But then, what is expected when Ming, once respected, is singing damp nurs’ry rhymes most of the time and ‘ole Charlie is missing and Paddy’s gone wishing while Cable – remember when he was thought able.. and Hughes, the old zealot, stopped thumping the table and mellowed to meaningless waffle and Clegg – the spare beggar – is whittled to clueless that reckons he still can win more than he loses but may well be toppled by Tim-with-a-Grin… The contemptible turncoats are now busy betting their *innocent faces* that we are quite dim and that we’ll be forgetting their utter betrayal so, glibly, they eagerly puff out their greasy sails.

Bent upon seizing a place, they go chasing both tails thinking they set the pace now but miss how the murky uncertainty in all the dirty is being well-noted: while they are off spinning and flirting with ghouls, they have proved to the country that we, the electorate, might have the vote but our wishes would count least of all.


Win-win depends on memory loss and
Popping that annoying, silly conscience
In a separate box. A back-scratch here;
A blackmail there; a hefty nudge corrective
And it’s good-to-go and woe-betide the
Upstart who won’t budge, for he will be
Selected as the fodder of complicity

Or maybe only seeming be

Defiance is an outward-bound publicity
To cover for duplicity when just obscene,
Behind the screen, a mutable compliance
Is the golden key to corporate prosperity,
For, lift the veil a level higher; there, the
Festival of liars seldom really disagrees
By need of mutual reliance for their
Profiteering power to succeed. Who has
The land, the water, herds and crops and
Energy is not the same as owns and takes;
That fakes the money and divides the honey
With the same ‘ole, shameless trickery –
But in the busy sphere of technocrats an
Enemy is only necessary inasmuch as it

International Women’s Day


  ‘Ain’t I a Woman?’ – Sojourner Truth     

That man over there says that women need to be helped into carriages, and lifted over ditches, and to have the best place everywhere. Nobody ever helps me into carriages, or over mud-puddles, or gives me any best place! And ain’t I a woman? Look at me! Look at my arm! I have ploughed and planted, and gathered into barns, and no man could head me! And ain’t I a woman? I could work as much and eat as much as a man – when I could get it – and bear the lash as well! And ain’t I a woman? I have borne thirteen children, and seen most all sold off to slavery, and when I cried out with my mother’s grief, none but Jesus heard me! And ain’t I a woman? Then that little man in black there, he says women can’t have as much rights as men, ’cause Christ wasn’t a woman! Where did your Christ come from? Where did your Christ come from? From God and a woman! Man had nothing to do with Him. If the first woman God ever made was strong enough to turn the world upside down all alone, these women together ought to be able to turn it back and get it right side up again.

[Sojourner Truth (1797-1883): Extract from Ain’t I A Woman? Delivered 1851 at the Women’s Rights Convention, Akron, Ohio, as poetically recounted later, by Frances Gage, in 1863]

I’ve always loved this poem, not just because it is strong and unapologetic but because it intersects race, class and gender.

Different versions of the speech exist. For background and history, try this link: Women’s Rights National Historical Park