Droplets of Verse: ‘When Will Britain Stop Being America’s Bitch?’

Across the Atlantic Ocean is the Land of the Free
Yankees roaming the planet, spreading new kinds of slavery
Replacing democracy with dollars, sniffing out deals
Pouring cash into deep pockets, greasing the wheels
Selling weapons and world peace in the same package
Diplomats and handshakes cause collateral damage

Britain is their ally in a ‘special relationship’
When will Britain stop being America’s bitch?

Nuclear weapons are stockpiled as a deterrent
While American guns end up in the hands of insurgents
Britain expresses deep concern, alongside Americans
But cowboys do their real talking with guns
Britain’s long standing contribution to NATO is respected
Military aid to hungry American dogs of war always accepted

Here comes the cavalry, it’s their good old friends the British
When will Britain stop being America’s bitch?

Global trade is poised to become truly transatlantic
A comprehensive deal designed to open up multiple markets
Ownership of all assets scooped up by the world’s richest
Public services grabbed by the well connected wealthy elitist
The British government stays faithful to a capitalist agenda
Imported from the USA, where they all love a big spender

Money talks, it’s Britain and America’s second language
When will Britain stop being America’s bitch?

Droplets of Verse: ‘Satanic Gardens’

I’m in the Satanic Gardens
Where the grass grows black
The lawn is never ending
Full of toxic weeds and heart attacks

In the Satanic Gardens
The sun burns very hot
Wilting flowers droop
In blood red plastic pots

In the Satanic Gardens
The soil is black as coal
Hosepipes of imminent doom
Wash away a man’s soul

In the Satanic Gardens
Giant snails devour the greenery
Earthworms big as dogs
Disturb the dreadful scenery

In the Satanic Gardens
The crazy paving screams
Garden gnomes cackle and grin
It’s a shedload of bad dreams
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Droplets of Verse: ‘Jeremy Corbyn’s Beard’

Jeremy keeps me fastidiously clean
Never leaves behind even the smallest stray baked bean
I’m always neatly trimmed, no hairs sticking out anywhere
Jeremy’s bushier days long gone, consigned to yesteryear

Above me lives Moustache, balancing like a hairy slug
In between top lip and nose, in a corridor so snug
If Jeremy buys a razor, I might find myself shorn away
But he’s not so fond of cutbacks, so I think I’m here to stay

Droplets of Verse: ‘Strippers’

Peeling away layers of state infrastructure
The government flirts with hard core free market erotica
Seducing the public, parading their economic credibility
Skimpy regulations making neoliberalism look sexy

Human rights stripped away, unclipping the shoulder straps
A provocative pole dance, in front of a drooling press pack
Spreadeagled, and sold a slow torture by the whip of austerity
Near naked, a nation accepts its fate gracefully, gratefully

Droplets of Verse: ‘Democracy is a Blocked Drain’

A slow trickle of dirty water
It’s used in plenty of smear campaigns
Or as a justifiction for war
Democracy swirls around in a blocked drain

Corrupted by career politicians
Collections of nasty deposits
Democracy acquires a new definition
Subverted by government ministers

It’s all about flushing out more dollars
Profit in the shape of deregulated finance
Lovely loot oozes through grubby fingers
Bad smells drowning in an overflowing bank balance

Droplets of Verse: ‘A Dark Cadence (Street Battle in B Flat Minor)’

An explosion of cellos, harmonious violence
Breaking the stone ether of suspense
An orchestrated punch assaults the silence

The slash of a stiletto
Murder in the manuscript, a gruelling concerto
A deadly duet, desire for diminuendo

The pitch of battle, bruising symphonies
Choreographed real time rhapsodies
A vendetta waltzes on a burning breeze

Fiddles play to the rhythm of a tarantella
A deep cut. Blood. A cold coup de grace
The Spider stumbles, spinning into siciliana

A slowing of tempo, echoing the death bed of Lazarus
Climbing crescendo, a dead man floats towards nimbus
On nearby rooftops, two ravens screech, a dark cadence

The final movement, in black shadows, a sombre melody
Steel Eyes survey a corpse of certainty, the closing study
A score eternal, composed by blades of metal, in a minor key

Front Pages: ‘Red Top Reveals Red Bra’

Sepp Blatter didn’t make it into the newspapers today
No sign of him, maybe he was playing away
Lord Sewel dominated the headlines in a lurid exposé
The front page of the Sun portrayed him in all his glory

A cocaine snorting peer, looking perky, pictured in a red bra
A sex and drugs romp, everyday government expenditure
He chaired committees to raise parliamentary standards higher
Sewel cavorted with prostitutes, got exposed as a sham, a liar

The Sun caught him in a sting, playing with his ding a ling
He made comments about his political connections. Quite interesting
Tony Blair going to war in Iraq, pursuing a romantic fling
With George Bush, world leaders together, hopelessly fumbling

Droplets of Verse: ‘Watching the Specials at Splendour in the Company of Frank McMahon’

‘Terry Hall’s a miserable git, he’ll just walk off
If anyone throws beer cans on to the stage’
That’s what Frank McMahon said as we waited
For the Specials at Splendour, at the home of the Batcave

The band arrived and played a version of ‘Ghost Town’
Stripped back to the bones, a skeletal ska rattle
A dystopian vision floated on a haunting delivery
Rhythm and melody alive in harmony, Terry got lyrical

It didn’t appear to impress Frank, he remained negative
He speculated that the band were all just session musicians
Performing a script soullessly, disappointingly workmanlike
A lukewarm offering, journeymen going through motions

And he noted Terry’s reluctance to engage with the crowd
Relating that previous gig when someone threw those beer cans
On that occasion Terry asked them to stop, and said if not he’d leave
To go home and watch Match of the Day, and have a wank

Personally, for me, the Specials were grand, their performance glorious
And I got unique added value,  from Frank’s continual sideswipes
Maybe he’s more like Terry Hall than he might previously have thought
Gloomy poets, enjoying life, alongside the beautiful stereotypes


Droplets of Verse: ‘Verbal Diarrhoea’

Crawling through a massive crack in the narrative
Censorship dribbles from your status updates, that’s what you give
Take a cup of tea, calm down, like you did when you were young
I’ll never understand why you want to silence my tongue
I’ve read your best work, I could ape that stuff effortlessly
A complete satire in less than fifty words, it would get messy
You attempt to prevent the spread of views and ideas
So we can all admire your regular dumps, your verbal diarrhoea

Droplets of Verse: ‘When Shooters Become Looters’

Separatist fighters terrorise the residents of east Ukraine
Use a Buk surface to air missile system to shoot down a plane
They celebrate wildly, waving their pistols in the air
Give each other high fives, dance around like they just don’t care

They organise themselves, then march together, to the site of the crash
Expecting to find a Ukrainian fighter jet turned into smouldering trash
They find pieces of charred, smoking metal over several metres of ground
Dead bodies, none of them in military uniform, no longer homeward bound

Terrorists  are forced to readjust their eyes. They’ve shot down a passenger jet
Innocence dismembered, fractured, tourists travelling, caught in a conflict
Unwittingly the target, undeniably in the wrong place on this occasion
The victims of a regime determined to keep on with a covert invasion

Terrorists, supported by Russia, killing tourists,  using extreme violence
Investigators deployed by global bodies to gather and verify evidence
Experience obstruction and non co-operation, terrorists wave guns in their faces
Meanwhile, luggage is looted, possessions stolen from battered, broken suitcases