Netanyahu didn’t give
A fuck. ‘Because Hamas!’ he cried
‘The children don’t deserve to live!
Because Hamas the people died!’
And Netanyahu didn’t care
What other countries said or did
His bombs kept falling from the air
On top of where the children hid
‘Because Hamas it is they fall
This isn’t genocide, this war
Is justified, if crime at all
It is because Hamas!’ he swore
‘That from the river to the sea
The Holy Land belongs to me’
© Gail Foster 22nd March 2024
Tit for Tat
A nursery rhyme about war
When playing games of tit for tat
It’s best that all agree
On which was tit and tat and that
Or all will be at sea
Forever playing tit for tat
For all eternity
That was a tat! That was a tit!
That looked like tat to me!
You started that! I’ll finish it!
And then we’ll go for tea
Another tat! Do you submit?
A tit! Submit to me?
And on they went. A tit, a tat
And never could agree
On which was tat to end the spat
Or tit did start the spree
Forever playing tit for tat
For all eternity
© Gail Foster 15th April 2024
Rishi Had A Little Plan
A bitchy rhyme about Rishi Sunak in nursery rhyme form
© Gail Foster 18th March 2024
Around The Block To Wetherspoons
A response in poetry form to recent attempts by the likes of Laurence Fox and Suella Braverman to stir up trouble around Armistice and Remembrance Day by using unproven threats to poppy sellers and the Cenotaph in order to further their own ends.
‘Twas Saturday, and up the smoke
In Wetherspoons across the land
The drivel that the gammons spoke
Grew difficult to understand
‘Twas Armistice, all over town
They belched into their British beer
And, holding flags up upside down
Did march for all that they held dear
Not that they’d ever served at all
Or fought at all in foreign lands
‘Twas only that their brains were small
And all a gammon understands
Is white is right, and all things beige
Apart from sausages and ale
Did put them in a proper rage
As did befit said British male
The monuments! It’s down to us!
To save them from the heathen flags!
I’m knackered though, is there a bus
Or anywhere to buy some fags?
Cry God for Charlie, Lozza too!
(That bloke on Twitter, and the King)
You got some Charlie, mate? I do
Let’s snort a line and have a sing!
The National Anthem – you go first
Er…Land of Hope…forgot the rest
It’s hard to sing when fit to burst
Ain’t patriotic pride the best?
Where are we going? I don’t know
Oi, which way to the Cenotaph?
It’s that way, mate – and off they go
It isn’t though, the children laugh
And on they marched, the gammeroons
Blood vessels bursting all the way
Around the block to Wetherspoons
As they had done back in the day
© Gail Foster 6th November 2023
PS I had a very tasty halloumi burger in the Orangery in Wetherspoons in Exeter recently.
Just saying.
The Seven Bins On Fire Without The Smoke
The Tories though. We watch them in dismay
All shifty liars, some said, others thought
That some were reasonable, if you caught
Them in the light, or on a summer’s day
You’d listen to the things they had to say
At least without becoming overwrought
Or thinking of the wars our fathers fought
Or falling on our creaky knees to pray
What is this shit? The fantasies, the lies
The seven bins on fire without the smoke
The artificial wars against the woke
The desperation and dogwhistle cries
For what? For populism and the cause!
The conference erupts in wild applause
© Gail Foster 4th October 2023
Covenant: The New Politics of Home, Neighbourhood and Nation, by Danny Kruger; a review in sonnet form
The honourable member for Devizes
Though erudite enough, is dark as night
Dispensing judgement from the Tory right
And those he doesn’t damn he patronises
His pretty prose is peppered with surprises
‘Transgressive?’ If you hold it to the light
It reads ‘Degenerate’ – but then my sight
Is tainted, like the pagan he despises
I tried to understand his big idea
His notion of the order – order, what?
Is that the one that Boris quite forgot
In favour of some Bolly and a beer?
I give it three. The poetry is fun
The politics are horrid. Sorry, hun
*
© Gail Foster 15th September 2023
Tits or Ovid
On the occasion of Alexander Boris de Pfeffel Johnson being unable to recall the passcode to the phone with all the stuff in
Boris couldn’t quite recall
If he’d died from Covid
Or his passcode. Not at all
‘Now was it ‘Tits’? Or ‘Ovid’?’
© Gail Foster 13th July 2023
In Your Hands ~ for the NHS
A sonnet written to mark the 75th anniversary of the National Health Service UK
Maskirovka ~ a nursery rhyme
Putin had a little coup
He hadn’t been expecting
While lurking in a Russian loo
Attempting his erecting
Damn Prighozin! I nearly had
A hard on. Proper stonker
And now it’s gone I’m feeling sad
Said Putin. What a plonker
He shut his eyes and tried again
He dressed as Betty Grable
He tried remembering the men
He’d had across his table
But nothing. Except Prighozin
Appearing. Maskirovka!
Said Putin. For the veil was thin
Or was it too much vodka
Fuck Prighozin. Said Putin and
Hey presto! An erection
Three inches in his little hand
Relief and resurrection
He smiled his special Putin smile
And raised an eyebrow slightly
(Been having Botox for a while
A little prick twice nightly)
The work was done, and that was it
Successful masturbation
And finally a face to fit
His special operation
Much prettier than Volodymyr
Zelensky who, said Putin
I tried to take right up the rear
But then he put the boot in
Knock, knock. Who’s there? It’s Prighozin
Come in and have some vodka!
Said Putin. For the veil was thin
Or was it Maskirovka
© Gail Foster 24th June 2023
Boris Had A Little Think
Boris had a little think
It wasn’t going well
And so he had another drink
His queasiness to quell
‘I like a nice Merlot’ he said
‘Although a cheaper wine
It gets me proper off my head
And leaves me feeling fine’
Boris poured a massive glass
Of Merlot, and some more
And woke up fallen on his arse
Upon the kitchen floor
‘I blame that Rishi bloke for this
Theresa May for that
And anyone who takes the piss
In opposition sat’
‘You mark my words’ he gestured in
The mirror, ‘I will rise
Like Jesus Christ and – where’s the gin?
I’ve run out of supplies’
He wobbled to the kitchen and
Cried ‘Carrie, what’s to do?’
And with his member in his hand
‘Look what I’ve got for you!’
The house was empty though, the halls
Were of his wife bereft
He felt a sinking in his balls
Was no-one, no-one left?
‘Cooee!’ Thank God, it was Nadine!
How fragrant she! They kissed
‘My God, my love, where have you been?
Come, help me get more pissed’
And so she trotted to the shop
And bought him wine and beer
Prosecco, porn, and fizzy pop
Enough to last a year
And oh the party that they had
‘You’re wonderful’ she gushed
‘I know’ said Boris, ‘and I’m bad’
‘I know you are’ she blushed
And then there was a knock and it
Was Jacob – ‘Come and join!’
Said Nadine, flopping out a tit
And tickling his groin
And it was perfect. Jacob in
His gimp suit, Boris drunk
And Nadine high on fancy gin
‘What was the thought I thunk?’
Thought Boris. For he had forgot
Quite who he was and why
Was he Prime Minister, or not?
And he began to cry
But not for long, for sweet Nadine
Did dry his eyes and pour
Another drink, for she was keen
To get him on the floor
‘You’re wonderful’ she said
‘I know’ said Boris, ‘so are you’
(Though anyone would do in bed
When he had had a few)
‘And baby I got Brexit done’
‘Oh say it once again
Shakespearean and sweetly spun
You giant among men!’
We’ll leave them to it there, I think
They few, they happy few
Nadine the prettiest in pink
And Boris in the loo
And Jacob dressed in latex. Ew
What some folk do for kicks
‘At least we’re not in the EU’
Said Boris, between sicks
‘You OK, hun?’ said sweet Nadine
‘Of course I am’ he said
‘And I will rise again, my Queen
To bed, my love, to bed!’
© Gail Foster 10th June 2022