Therefore I lied to please the mob.
Now all my lies are proved untrue
And I must face the men I slew.
What tale shall serve me here among
Mine angry and defrauded young?
and participate in democracy
with pretty scant bureaucracy:
a positive ‘Yes,’ or apologetic ‘No’
to retain the so-called status quo.
Of course, there was some controversy
and the usual lack of transparency
that comes with political machinations
concerning divisions of the nations.
The ‘Yes’ was based on a game of chance
that played on public ignorance;
the ‘No’ was a flimsy ‘we’re better together,’
as predictable as Scottish weather.
Each layer of ignorant bullshit revealed
more false information as it was unpeeled
and thrown into the melting pot to sweat
in the hope that everyone would forget
the promises made, or the lies, told
to lure in the bigots, racists or the old
folk (apparently they’re in the same boat –
but, fuck it, everyone needs a scapegoat!)
(okay, as a poet, I like a nice pun,
but at least it’s only good, clean fun)
On one side we had the ‘Vote Remain,’
as if everything would stay the same:
a sort-of "If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it"
was their reason for resisting an exit…
but we all know that’s not entirely true;
despite the gold stars on the flag of blue
there are many divisions within Europe
between right-wing greed and left-wing hope
(Yes, Hope and Europe rhyme on the page –
it looks better on paper than spoken on-stage)
As for the ‘other side’ – where do I start!
Being a wordsmith, I haven’t the heart
to call those idiots ‘the Brexiters,’
We’ll refer to them now on as 'Bullshitters.'
There was Boris the Bullshitter – what a buffoon
(don’t laugh – he might be Prime Minister soon)
who bandied his lies, damned lies and statistics
with abandon, using them as his shit-sticks
for stirring up bigotry, bullshit and hate:
don’t vote for this fuckwit – oh no! – too late.
if he’s actually a real human being:
but I can’t say the following without seeing
Cameron’s cock stuffed in Nigel’s face…
Farage is a racist pig! Ew. Regarding race,
Farage has made all that’s offensive
seem acceptable, and racism, normative;
he made the fake issue of migration
divide an already-intolerant nation.
Does he garnish his xenophobic sandwich
with derogatory names and offensive language?
No. No he doesn’t – he’s smarter than that:
he’s a Prime Bullshitter, and a fucking twat.
his Bullshit was based on how to react
to the man-in-the pub, whose ‘expert’ opinion
was another layer of the Ignorance Onion
since the British electorate, easily swayed,
care little for how the facts are displayed.
It’s only when, the morning after,
they google the EU and find the disaster
that voting Brexit – er – I mean, Bullshit
has landed us all in. Ignorant fuckwits,
you could call them, and yet this story
is always the same for those who vote Tory.
How, then, shall we take this thing forwards?
I don’t think my ranting on with more words
is going to solve the mess we’re in –
but I’m just a poet, not a politician.
Yes: poets are prophets, visionaries, seers –
we’ve plied our rhymes for years and years.
You can’t accuse us of hypocrisy: ‘cant’ –
as Byron once said – is now stronger than ‘cunt.’
(Okay so his rhyme wasn’t a strong one…
at least he didn’t shoe-horn a rhyme with ‘onion.’)
when discovering that, in years to come,
all the lies that were peddled by Tory Scum
have sold your country down the river
with promises which they failed to deliver;
If the money turns out to be anything less
than the millions pledged to the NHS;
If your rights, your social security, sick pay,
maternity/paternity leave are taken away;
If you think Brussels was full of bureaucrats
but Britain is run by a bunch of fat cats;
If the referendum was, in truth, about greed,
leaving the disenfranchised in more need;
has no more value (or less) than the Euro;
If unemployment rockets, because we have no
expertise among our untrained workforce;
If, thanks to your vote for this messy divorce,.
our nation has split up, and of all its children
are caught in a bitter tug-of-love; if you, then,
at the next election, don’t know what to do:
vote the Bullshitters OUT – they lied to you.
asparagus shipped from Peru?
in the fields of Kent.
it would not only reduce
of boosting the country’s economy –
would bring down the prices on every shelf.
It’s better for them and better for us
that comes from the Garden of England.
to which he might well add pork and gammon:
the pig produces plenty of mammon.
This you will know – at least, if you’ve bred one –
To humans, the only good pig is a dead one.
That’s why the pig has a slot in its back:
a piggy-bank’s always kept in the black.
doesn’t come naturally sausage-shaped,
or that gammon is salty before it is smoked.
The sort of pork people dislike the most
is the leftover carcass at a Hog-roast;
the pig, to the average British Shopper,
comes without snout or tail or trotter.
whether it’s streaky or collar or hock,
grilled or pan-fried, gammon or back,
people prefer meat in fillets or strips,
and very few meat-eaters come to grips
with the fact that they’re eating animal-flesh
if it’s cooked in a casserole or a pie-dish.
cured, marinated, ready-to-fry
or whack on the barbecue – it’s never dry –
or slap onto a pre-heated George Forman Grill:
half the fat, half the taste, and half the thrill.
Bacon crisps are as flavoursome
as the chemicals pumped up a chicken’s bum.
pulled to pieces, shredded or diced,
pre-masticated, minced, ready-sliced.
Sainburys, claim as a ‘local’ shop
are keeping their customers on the hop;
as are Morisson’s, Waitrose, Aldi, and Lidl:
a ‘local’ con is a corporate fiddle.
surely, as long as it’s British
and not from Parma, or even worse, Danish:
that’s like buying lamb from New Zealand –
we’ve thousands of lambkins here in Scotland.
We’ve Aberdeen Angus and fresh fish of course,
and in Tesco Lasagne, a wee hint of horse.
The reason why dogs always get given bones is
to bribe loyalty, and keep up with the Jones’s;
but piggies happily off in their pokes will
be content with mud, scraps and swill.
The pig is of little good use on the farm
(but unlike the carthorse, he’ll come to no harm.)
He snorts and squeals, grunts and snuffles,
and does the odd stint of sniffing out truffles.
If gammon is pumped up with sugar and water
we don’t give a fig if we think it tastes better.
Boiled or roasted, barbecued, grilled,
it makes no difference how the pig’s killed
if it gives you escalopes, spare ribs, or pizzle:
for farmers, it’s quids-in; for piggies, a swizzle.
For sure, you’re rewarded with pork medallions,
or if your prefer, with pork chops or loins;
from its innards, liver and kidneys are drawn,
and then there’s the pig’s head, a.k.a., brawn.
To market this little piggie goes smiling: may well he;
he gives us his spare ribs, his back and his belly.
There isn’t an inch of the pig that gets wasted –
you can puke it out if you don’t like how it tasted.
the ultimate in personification
exemplifies this greedy nation.
For the filthy pig has now come to pass
as an object of mirth to the privileged class.
The sow’s ear is now a silk-lined purse;
its streaky benevolence, a suilline curse.
Subverting four legs good; two legs, bad
it’s a diatribe, demonstrating how badly
we treat the subservient, yet notoriety
seems to be glossed over in Big Society.
“Let others say his heart is big” – well said!
You’ll be fucking the whole pig, not just its head.