Tag: Political Satire
Piffle Pfeffel
Alexander Boris De Pfeffel Johnson
Would like us to believe
That he is a man of the people fighting
For our democracy –
Piffle Pfeffel!
His arguments brittle,
Hatred inciting, racism igniting,
Self-promotion his skill,
The man plotting to shut down our Parliament –
Tyrannical clown king
Piffle Pfeffel,
Pfeffel sounds so like
Piffle: nonsense; rubbish; gibberish; drivel;
Twaddle; claptrap; noise; tripe;
Baloney; Bunkum; Bunk; Balderdash; Babble;
And other words for lies,
Piffle Pfeffel,
Idiocy worn as the ultimate mask,
Behind Johnson’s hokum
The sly autocrat who utilises farce,
He’s the institution
He in vainest glory feigns to take to task –
Piffle Pfeffel,
School boy of Eton
Then Balliol, Oxford to read the classics
In which the elite learn
Too often customs of ‘soft supremist’
Via Caucasian curriculums
History thinned into white-centralist
Ideas and idioms,
He’ll style himself a modern Odysseus
Battling with Trojans,
That old Butcher Boris,
Our blood on his hands as he serves us the meat –
Our future the carcass,
Must each eat our bones at his merry conceit?
Yet, his role in office
Thus far historic in its early defeats –
Piffle Pfeffel,
Though he has a Queen’s ear and directs her pen,
The UK constitution
Must be codified to prevent such events;
Proroguing parliament,
In other words silencing all debate or dissent
To force, without consent,
Unthinkable ruin, such entitlement
Has scarred a continent,
A globe, a Northern Ireland Peace Agreement,
The UK itself rent;
Torn as he and his chase preferment,
His fibs don’t relent,
Piffle Pfeffel,
Alexander the Un-great, realm divider
Entitled Trump-like twin,
Dividing neighbours, dismantling traders,
Behold the sole sovereign
Who would silence discussion in both chambers
‘Til he, Count Despot wins,
No matter the costs, the losses, the dangers
As whiles wear paper thin,
Piffle Pfeffel,
That is what I call him,
The worst PM we’ve seen.
Antonia Sara Zenkevitch
Get on with what?
“Get on with it!” say Brexiteers, That phrase, gravel in my ears, As one more factory shuts up shop A few more thousand lose their jobs Amid the lies that they would prosper If immigration disappears, The truth is there, but they don’t hear As we tie ourselves up in knots “Get on with it!” They say; our nation’s auctioneers, But the way ahead is not clear Except that we'll all be worse off And more of us won’t have enough; Revisiting depression years, Get on with it? “Get on with it!” the endless round, As government debates confound Both the best and the worst of us On every side of this circus, As leaders’ arrogance astounds, Our creaking democracy found Cold, abused, hungry, gagged and bound, The response offered by leavers: “Get on with it” The majority lost not found In archaic schemes, rules for clowns That sway countries and media, Though eyes are now on Westminster It’s corporations that are crowned Get on with it? “Get on with it!” say Brexiteers, But no workable deal appears, Meanwhile, vital services rot, People, made homeless, later robbed Of any chance of a future As we betray our teenagers Steal children’s potential careers And up the climate chaos odds. “Get on with it!” Say those scared, yet still unaware They’re selling our protections off, Imperfect though they were, to bluff Self-governance that never was, Nebulous words as deadlines near, “Get on with it!” “Get on with it”, get on with what? With the Brexit of the lynch mob Or the one that mimics Norway? The ‘hurry-up’ crowd never say Though they are so rarely quiet, There is no wand to whisk away The social ills of the U.K, Or falsely recalled yesterdays, Brexiteers scapegoated Europe, Get on with it? Get on with what? National decay? Alienating minorities? We've no constitution to cope With destitution beyond scope Of those four words of mockery: "Get on with it!" Not "How?" or, ever, "What comes after?" Nor "What is it?" "What's wrong with it?" Not, it seems, "What's wrong with us?" Never "What's stopping this?" No truth in Brexit For Brexiteers; No real plans At all; None. Antonia Sara Zenkevitch
Dear Ministers
Dear Ministers,
Oh, dear ministers,
Oh dear, ministers,
I have listened, ministers,
To the speeches you gave,
I have seen you, leaders,
How some choose to behave,
I offer up broken couplets
Too messy to make the grade,
Like the Eton Mess you serve us;
Dominic Raab
You’ve had a fair stab
At getting the Brexit you craved,
As quill-master in Cabinet,
Aren’t you part of the mess that’s been made?
But no one’s got a sane plan yet,
How can your vision be saved?
We’ll lose our voice, increase our debt,
Can we not end the whole Brexit crusade?
Andrea Leadsom
I can’t fathom your reasons
For taking a lead upon
Leaving,
It’s not buying us freedom
Just Isolation
More homelessness,
And alienation
That will leave most of us
Grieving,
Boris Johnson
Tone down your ambition
When it estranges our nation,
Where you get facts from
I cannot imagine
But few of them have any traction,
Oh Michael Gove
I don’t mean to scold
But there isn’t much else I can say,
As we’re forced down a road
Which will see us implode –
You were warned Brexit would be this way,
Please, Jacob Rees-Mogg,
Could you stop playing God –
Draining dregs of Britain’s Great,
The Brexiters will no longer applaud
When they examine the state of our state,
You campaigned for something we cannot afford
That’s encouraging extremist hate,
Which will undermine the rule of law,
And you don’t quite have the mandate,
Liam Fox
We’re on the rocks,
Could you rise to our defence?
Brexit has hit expected roadblocks,
Your euro-scepticism makes little sense,
Jeremy Corbyn,
Please curb your boredom,
We need a real opposition,
You’ve been sat there for months
Letting them play the trumps
Not challenging many decisions,
Please don’t stay in the dumps
Between scuffles and bumps,
Wake up, and get with the mission,
You look like your waiting for Godo to come,
Seeming apathy enlarges division
And that’s not a thing we can build on,
Theresa May,
You campaigned to remain
But the deal offered
Is no sort of plan;
Neither here nor there,
Can you tell, I’m not a big fan?
But I have to be fair,
Making Brexit happen
would make any despair,
So, could we start agreeing
That this is demeaning
And Brexit can’t get anywhere?
Frank Field
Please yield,
The foodbank ques
Are already too long,
Think what we’ll lose
If no-deal rules
And our bargaining power
Is all gone,
I honour your ardour
But you’re plain wrong,
And, let me make it clear;
Immigrants belong,
When you raise fear
It resonates on, on, on,
We’re better inside
Making change
Than outside when everything’s gone,
Shouting in
With nothing but our rage
To live on,
You’ll only succeed in limiting
How any of us engage –
Best abort the mistaken vision
At this last sand-grain stage,
Kate Hoey,
What are you doing?
You won’t end the single market
This exit will just lead to our ruin –
And guess who’ll be hit the hardest
If borders are closed, no food getting in?
The working class would die the fastest.
If we’ve hope of any solution
We have to take stock and move past this;
We need a codified constitution
But breaking union won’t help this,
And Brexit won’t offer social justice
But more hunger and less protections,
Ester McVey,
This is far from OK;
Brexiteering
Cripples the UK,
Throwback ideas stirring
Our fears,
And nostalgia for Empire days
In faraway years,
But when ballots say Brexit
It was ever going to be
A state of disarray
As a third-party country,
This was a foundation
Not to vote leave,
We break more than one
Precious unity,
But, for diverse reasons,
On one thing we agree;
This deal won’t work for our nation –
It will mean more poverty
And give near zero security
Or peace,
But Brexit could be no other way –
As most legal advisors agree,
Now our nation has to pay
But have no protection or say
In EU policies,
I could go on with my anti-Brexit song
But would any of you really listen?
You’ve been ignoring each other for so long
As we’re forced to endure such division.
Antonia Sara Zenkevitch
The Big Riot (a political satire)
At the Met headquarters
There’s another call out,
To gather all available officers
To attend another London riot,
When they muster at the order
The streets are uncannily quiet,
Far too silent to signal peace,
The van drivers see the flickering TVs
As the vanguards of PSUs cruise,
They tell their colleagues in the carriers
“Every household is watching the news”
Then, they get closer to Westminster
Where they each get a first-hand view,
Of the riot’s epicentre,
Met commanders aren’t sure what to do,
It started in the Common’s Chamber
And it shows no sign at all of ending,
Ministers displaying criminal behaviour,
They’d have to send the forces in,
Some Brexiteers were running with cleavers
And Boris Johnson was singing
As law-enforcers arrest law-makers
To the sound of ancient plaster cracking
And answering war cries from Remainers,
The police chief rethinks the cons of fast-tracking
While arresting MPs from Tories and Labour,
Extracting an uninterested Corbyn,
If he’d not been killed by Mogg’s sabre
It looks like he’d soon have died of boredom,
The Speaker is still trying hard to call order
As someone nearby asks the chief
“Sir, where do we put the cordon?”
Antonia Sara Zenkevitch
The 48% 