The Desperate Cons

In the election campaign
The Cons sought to gain
By their old chestnut tune
Of scaremongering doom
That the Left in its rising
Would be our demise –
Well, now, what a surprise!

And so, leaking their hubris
All over the place, the Cons
Hastened to prove their
Credentials and taste with a
Foot-shooting wheeze that
Blew back in their face.

And the country collapsed
Into giggles and wonder at
How low the Tories would
Stoop just to blunder

(for only the day before,
Osborne did thunder most
righteous for non-doms
concerned with their plunder)

but still there was more…

For the Tories let loose
Drama Queen, Michael Fallon
To show Callme’s crack potted
Team of top talent.

On air in the studios, one after
Other, he ranted hysterical over
Ed’s brother with “this is a test of
His character” crap and that Mili
Was “willing to stab the UK in
The back” was a fact.

It was shockingly crass and the
Country, en mass, knew the nasty
Was just getting started with tat.

But when Sophie at Sky looked
To Ed for reply he just sighed for
The grubby, demeaning and sly
And with marvellous, dignified
Rising above, he proceeded to
Shove the Con’s desperate farce
Right on back up their morally
Impacted arse.

Prime Ministerial Material

Prime Ministerial Material –
What’s that, when it’s at home?

You know: as in the one where
someone shows the qualities
of leadership and vision that’s
sufficiently proficient unto
governing the State.

Our politics is vying for the lack
of it and yet it’s all the rage,
among necrotic lip-sync media
and no, mate, actually, it’s not a
secret, got a bit too clever quips

Well, anyway, Westminster and
his wife are framing anxious for
the People not to recognise the
answer any more.

And what is it?
You may well ask!
A blast from out the olde past
by order and degree – a leader
lording arbitrarily
over you and you and me?

Or heretofore a dream of one,
agreed, is really of the We?

Well, then, yes, please!
That would be great!
When can you start?
Say, May, the eighth?

The Kingdom’s crying out
for one whose lens portends
the socio-economic sense of
open hearts and wiser heads…

Who killed Democracy?

A Robin Redbreast in a Cage
Puts all Heaven in a Rage
.’ ~ William Blake

~*~
Who killed Democracy?
We, sighed the People,
With our blind eye,
We killed Democracy.
Who saw it die?
I, replied Everyone,
By complacent idling,
I saw it die.
Who bought its blood?
Us, cried the corporations,
With our disregard for nation,
We bought its blood.
Who’ll make its shroud?
We, sang the rich and proud,
With our crony vows,
We’ll make its shroud.
Who’ll dig its grave?
Us, say the governments,
With disempowerment,
We’ll dig its grave.
Who’ll toll the bell?
They, knelling in extremis,
Visioning hell,
They’ll toll the bell.
Who’ll be chief mourner?
We, cried all,
With our heart and soul,
We’ll chiefly mourn.
And the World fell a-sobbing
And a-sighing for a sacrifice
Relying on its hope to be reborn.

On the Leaders’ Debate

Well, after the will they
Or won’t they debate,
The State’s leaders and bleeders
Stepped up to the Fates…

Prep Natalie read so she wouldn’t
Forget (and because we must not)
Though her high rising terminal
Threatened to grate. And Integrity
Clegg pimped his pledges to hedge
Between used-to-be-Redder
And Blue-for-the-Few,
While Farage of Myopia
Painted dystopia to anyone
Who could stomach his spew.

But sort-of-Red Ed,
Newly risen from dead,
Showed it wasn’t a fluke
As he put up his dukes,
Teasing Dave I won’t take
Any lectures from you

(Though the Scottish and
Welsh ladies dished one
Or two.)

And Callme, please
(Call me out)
There on his limb, with
Few friends and less chance
Than before of a win, pulled
His faux-concerned face to
Each camera’s place, though
We knew all his fear
Was reserved just for him.

And, naturally, after, in Media’s
‘Spin Room’, the groupies and
Roadies all claimed a team win
Although, finally, everyone had to
Agree that from out of the Hydra
Were three best received:

For the women were brilliant,
Strong and refreshing, had stood
For no messing and come out on top
Because, whether you counted Ed
With them or not, the good Left is
Wot won it and plebeian blessing
Looks ready to shift, having seen
The Right die in its own pile of shit.

What a mess

What a mess
that we must
second guess
at best
or blindly trust
some whimsy gist
of ideological rust
dressed up
as finest acumen
by flimsy men
of mist and lust.

A Few of Callme’s Unsavoury Things

Call me a mirror man
Call me myopic
Call me a PR con
Call me entropic
Call me a faker
Of them and us plots
Call me a taker
Of piss and pot shots

Call me a hypocrite
Call me a bully
Call me a woolly clot
Dancing by pulleys
Call me an arrogant
Carrion tool
Call me Establishment’s
Second-rate fool

Call me intransigent
Call me a logjam
Call me a yesteryear
Reforming yes man
Call me adept at
Inept leadership
Call me a servant
Who’s badly equipped

Call me incompetent
Call me a classist
Call me a jumped-up
Aspiring fascist
Call me too big for
Mahogany boots
Call me elitist right
Down to my roots

Call me compassionate
Call me an actor
Call me a coward
Behind the Max Factor
Call me a status quo
Preserving man
But call me
Please Callme Dave
So that I can.

Paxo Stuffing

Last night Channel 4 and Sky News co-hosted the first ‘Battle For No 10’

 

Paxo, gung-ho
But still, not that important
Shook Callme’s comportment
With countering facts
About Comeback’s mad data
And cuts with big buts that
The hedging created.
And I was elated
When Paxo related those
Zero-hours contracts to ineptitude
Quizzing Dave “could you live on one?”
“That’s not the question,” shot back the reply
(Except that it clearly was – quite a few times)
And so Dave was well got as the answer,
Once prised, was a “no”
(Of course not)
And as Jeremy smiled, so did I
As I pictured lame Lynton’s team
Dying inside – they forgot to rehearse
The Electorate’s side!

And then Ed said New Labour
Had made some mistakes and apologised
For some loose numbers and regs
But then, fully determined to set his
Own stride, showed his not-gloomy self
And berated the myth that to be socialist
Meant you didn’t do wealth and, Hell yes!
He was tough and no, David (the brother
One) didn’t do left enough, making it clear
To all those who would hear how a hair
Rests between David, David and Blair.

With the head-to-head separate
Questioning done, the debate was begun in which
Virtually everyone who had a care, declared
Their chap had won, having been best prepared.

And the ones who would dare to vote other, 
Shared wittily, Paxo would fit into Number Ten prettily.

Too much here

Be in the world but not of it
As matter fixed
Though spirit be not bound to here.

But, what, then, of the days
When you feel so much
Of the world and yet not in it,
That the spirit follows limit
Into hollowed ground to disappear?

Another Fudge-it Budget

Bulging with indulgence came
The Chance Seller, with silken
Purse and pork pie puns, for yet
Another Fudge-it Budget in the
Name of long-term economic con.

And so, quid promo comeback kid
Dished guesstimated sums to wish
Conserve yourself priorities upon
A cursed majority, submerged by
Preservation of his power-driven
Chums.

And to that end, he further nursed
The fortunate already Ones,
Pretending he was nurturing
Recovery for all by spending only
What a showman would and cleverly
Consolidating vulnerable people
Where he dared to think he could.

And every time an ‘expert’ crooned
About a magic hat attuned to sly
Electioneering tat supplied to Party
Wriggle room, a naked M&M danced
Into my imagination’s view as like to
Affirmation’s clue: that ethics and
A Common Good, ignored or just
Misunderstood, George Osborne
Simply could not, would not do.

Grant Shapps. Perhaps.

Grant Shapps, perhaps
Sebaceous Fox,
Obscure of fact,
More often than was not,
In times gone back, did jot
Obscenely under pen of
Michael Green on how to
Make a ton of cash
Fantastically quick
By selling Stinking Rich
Until the day, by public pay,
Was seen and heard in deed
And word, his alter-ego(s)
Did dispatch.

Except for that by overlap,
Did slip the shifty triptych chap
Who, dipstick keen on witticism,
Hastily deployed his bluest cryptic
Euphemism on diluting accusations
He had proper lied to “over firmly”
Had denied.

Fans said he wasn’t cheating or
Deceiving anyone but merely
Honing skills required as a member
Of the Cons. And anyway, the Party
Claimed, a pseudonym’s a long
Established vehicle in the Arts and
How to Corp is where we find the
Talent part within our I’m a Tory
AmDram market glorifying heart.

And thusly, Call-me-Dave, by name,
Expressed his fullest confidence
– again –
In yet another Jackanory.

Encore.
Exeunt.

“End of Story.”