Showing posts with label politics. Show all posts
Showing posts with label politics. Show all posts

Tuesday, 16 May 2017

Polling Station Rock

Let’s all rock to the polling station,
hop and bop and bump as a nation
back to the seventies. Let’s all wear
cheesecloth shirts and perm our hair,
dig out crombies, Ben Sherman shirts,
leather biker jackets and mini-skirts.

Let’s sleep on the beaches at weekends,
and walk down the road to call for our friends,
have school milk and uni grants for free,
buttered bread with fruit for Sunday tea,
get up to change the telly channel
and wash our faces with a flannel
in a freezing bathroom without a shower.
See hedgerows bursting with wild flowers.

Let’s listen to air waves fading at night
from Radio Luxembourg and Caroline,
dance in the youth club, hang around town,
pockets full of pennies and half crowns,
watch Monty Python and bunk off school;
the ‘Who’ generation that broke all the rules.
There was something in the air, an albatross
flying high with butterflies born at Woodstock.

So let’s get together and rock to the polls
and save the garden and save our souls,
get rid of the Tories and privatisation
and daddy-dance to the polling station!

© Jude Parsons 2017

Friday, 9 September 2016

A Different Prism

They say Corbyn’s unelectable,
That his policies are undetectable,
His charisma is imperceptible
And his behaviour’s unrespectable.

He should bow like other men and sing,
Be the puppet of the left right wing,
Dress in proper suits, don’t do anything
To upset Westminster’s flimflamming

He should resign to stop the Labour war
Although his mandate topped anyone’s before.
He should pay first class not sit on the floor.
What the hell does he think expenses are for?

A rebel then. A social schism.
A Kirk. A man whose star has risen
High above Westminster’s midden.
Shining through a different prism.

Jude Parsons ©2016

Wednesday, 20 August 2014

Response to mass letter sent to the voting public from Mr Cameron

Dear Mr Cameron, I’ve received your letter
saying the economy’s getting better
and how our mortgages are staying low.

I rent this house in case you didn’t know
and haven’t had a payrise in five years
whilst the rate of interest on my ISA
means my savings have no chance to grow.

It’s nice, despite my fears, to see you mention
I’ll have more leeway how I spend my pension;
I’m planning to buy cheaper beans from Aldi
and download blackleg versions of Vivaldi.

I’m very pleased you’ve asked what I would like,
providing boxes I might want to tick in,
but notice that there’s no space on the page
to write my extra comments. What’s the fricking
point of asking me for my opinion
when the choices are not those I'd vote on
and irrelevant to my position?

The boxes that I would prefer to choose from
would concern what I think Mr Cameron
should do? a) drop dead? or b) go to hell?
or c) resign? or d) let someone else
have a go at sorting out this mess?

In short I'd like it if you shoved your spin
up somewhere other than my rubbish bin.

Tuesday, 8 October 2013

The Cabinet Shuffle

Lets all do the Cabinet shuffle
(step to the Left, jump to the Right)
Sidestep all the real kerfuffle
(shimmy to the left, wiggle to the right)

Battle through the media scuffle
(Star to the Left, Mail to the Right)
When they ask a question, waffle
(stretch to the left, bend to the right)

Do it like they do in Brussels
(kiss to the left, bise to the right)
Do the Bump and do the Hustle
(twerk to the left, twank to the right)

So take your partners, strut your stuff (all
drift to the left, shift to the right)
and Breakdance to the cabinet shuffle
(twist to the left, spin to the right)

Friday, 12 April 2013

Wicker Woman

  (on the resurgence of  the song 'Ding, dong, the witch is dead' on the death of Margaret Hilda Thatcher, 1925-2013)

So those in power want to ban the song.
They feel the water lap around their boots.
This time it’s someone else. It won’t be long
Before it’s their turn knee deep in the sluice.
Ding dong, the doorbell rings. Who’s at the door?
Let’s hope it’s not those badly mannered poor
With their demands of equal this and that.
God help us, now the ship deserts the rat.
The witch is dead and tap, tap here’s the wake
With fire in their eyes to light the stake.
The crone is gone, but here’s her legacy,
A world of ‘trickle up’ economy.
The wicker woman waits upon the hill
If you won’t light the kindle then they will.

Thursday, 4 April 2013


I’m very anxious nowadays whenever I go out;
it seems these new Precariat are suddenly about.
The implication is that they are lager swigging shirkers
who mix with manual labourers like cleaners and farm workers.

They rent their homes instead of buying them like decent folk
and live on less than twenty thou a year. No doubt they smoke
and take drugs too. Apparently they are quite dangerous
because their lives are unpredictable, precarious.

They are the rioters, protestors, knee-jerking despair,
without a future, without hope, a job, a life, a care.
And yet, I do not see them when I step outside my door,
the world seems just the same to my eyes as it did before.

I’ve looked under my mattress where I keep my money hid
in case the banks collapse again. I’ve looked in next door’s skip.
I’ve asked my social worker and my cronies down The Bear.
We cannot see these Precariat people anywhere

Tuesday, 2 April 2013

The Big Lie

The working class is split, the country’s stuffed.
A divided society is what we’ve got.
The Lie is that there is a ‘Them and Us’.

They have too many bedrooms; one’s enough
for wasters, addicts, scroungers, useless blobs.
The working class is split, the country’s stuffed. 

They don’t think like we do, do different stuff,
like eat odd food and worship different gods.
The Lie is that there is a ‘Them and Us’. 

They’re ginger, black, disabled, have big butts,
They cheat on benefits or steal our jobs.
The working class is split, the country’s stuffed.

The government has got us up the duff;
We’ll all be old one day, without a job.
The Lie is that there is a ‘Them and Us’.

We point the finger on demand and cuss -
'We' might become ‘Them’ given different odds.
The working class is split, the country’s stuffed.
The Lie is that there is a ‘Them and Us’.



Tuesday, 7 April 2009

Like Pigs in Shit

Oh dear, what a pigging shame.
Caught with your snout in the trough,
snorting your expenses claim.

Now everybody knows your name
and your address… and what you watched.
Oh dear, what a pigging shame.

A patio heater? Can you blame
the public for their stone cold wrath?
For snorting, 'Your expenses claim?'

Your reputation’s down the drain -
that new plug wasn’t big enough.
No dear. What a pigging shame.

Politics is a mugger’s game.
Talking mounds of useless froth
whilst snorting your expenses claim.

It might be politic to proclaim
you’ve been an Oik and bugger off
snorting. Your expenses claim?
Too dear. What a pigging shame.


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