Cometh The Man

On the occasion of Matt Hancock (who?) going into the jungle (what?)

Oh how our MPs entertain us
We are what we eat - and sustain us
Licking Boris's ring
Was an actual thing
And Nadine ate an ostrich's anus

Matt Hancock. Who cares? Who is he?
And where did you find him? (BB)
And what has he done? 
Blah, blah, trouserless fun
Blah, blah - ah, so a Tory MP

Good luck in the jungle! You're who?
Do watch out for the crocodile poo!
And the people who think
You're a wanker, wink wink
For the fans of a Tory are few

Who knows? He might prove to be good
Give some old Tory women some wood
Not that they'll see
Being more BBC
But I'm sure that they would if they could

Cometh the moment a van
In which cometh Matt Hancock who can
Come up with the goods
In the House or the woods
Where is he? He's coming! Oh man

© Gail Foster 2nd November 2022

Elon Had A Little Sink

Elon had a little sink
And quite a lot of Twitter
A Starlink and a skating rink
And gold encrusted shitter
I'd give it all up in a blink
He said, and not be bitter
If I had farts that didn't stink
And tarts that didn't titter

Elon did a lot of farts
And most of them were smelly
Distracting him from all the arts
He liked to watch on telly
And darts - he did like watching darts
And reading Machiavelli
While reaching down to touch the parts
He hid beneath his belly

Elon liked the ladies so
And ladies liked his money
He wished they wouldn't titter though
At things that were not funny
It's not the time for jokes you know
He'd say, make like a bunny
And - oh! - don't interrupt my flow
Don't titter at me honey

Elon had a massive head
And doors he had to widen
An IQ higher than, he said
The tide that he was ridin'
But when he snuggled in his bed
He'd no-one to confide in
Except his teddy, Little Ted 
And poster of Joe Biden

Elon quite liked Donald Trump
And Putin, or whoever
Was popular that he could hump 
To make himself look clever
And if they cut him off he'd dump
Them instantly, forever
And never let them kiss his rump
Again. Or nearly never

Elon had the notion that
He was the true Messiah
Jesus, he'd say, was a twat
And my IQ is higher
And I'm the King of Twitter, sat
Above all that desire
Me even though my head is fat
And I may be a liar

Elon. Onle. Leon. Nole -
Who knows what you equate to
You say you'll root out every troll
But who knows what will fate do
World domination is your goal
And nothing less will sate you
Beware behind the grassy knoll
The ego that creates you

© Gail Foster 28th October 2022

He Always Was Conservative, Was Fred

He always was Conservative, was Fred
'The one thing they will never take away -
Conservative and proud!' he used to say
'And British. British born and British bred'
He liked a bit of bunting on the shed
And Elgar, bits of which he liked to play
Upon his trumpet on Election Day
'To keep away the immigrants' he said

When Boris came at first he liked him well
But then there was the party thing, and he
Was not impressed by that, nor by the smell
Of bullshit, Truss's rubbish, his MP - 
The list went on. He just said 'Fucking Hell!'
And died, they said, in front of the TV

© Gail Foster 21st October 2022

What Company They Keep

On the introduction of the phrase 'anti-growth coalition' to the Conservative lexicon

The Ministry of Silly Words devised
A phrase designed to bring about division
So dreadful it was worthy of derision
One has to wonder why one is surprised
Or that one is, with others so despised
Described as being in some coalition
So comprehensive in its composition
That definition would be ill-advised

Wait - anti-what? The anti-what are who?
The enemy. The enemy is me?
And anyone who dares to disagree
Apparently, with anything they do
What words they use to lull us all to sleep!
How dull they are. What company they keep

© Gail Foster 7th October 2022

Oh My God. My Dear

We empaths be like, ‘Oh My God!’
As wave on wave in which to drown
‘The coffin. Oh my God, the crown!’
Come rolling o’er the English sod
With flowers floating on the flod
To strew the rooftops of the town
Oh comfort us with staff and rod
We empaths be like going down

You’re not an empath? Lucky you
We take our hats off to you, doff
Our caps as you would have us do
‘As if you too were servants!’ Scoff
Away. We know why we are here
The coffin. Oh My God. My Dear

© Gail Foster 13th September 2022

‘Today I Mostly Learned About Death’ – a small child at Buckingham Palace, Saturday 10th September 2022, photograph by Gail Foster

Elizabeth Said

I'm delighted, said Liz, to have won in the vote
Even though I am up against Rishi, the scrote
I'm not looking behind me I'm looking ahead
You can trust me. I'm Liz Truss, Elizabeth said

I'm excited, said Liz, and I'm ready to hit
The ground running. I'm up against Rishi, the shit
But I'm really alive even though I look dead
You can trust me. I'm Liz Truss, Elizabeth said

I'm invited, said Liz, by my mates the MPs 
To go up against Rishi. I know about cheese
And I know about pork so I'll keep us all fed
You can trust me. I'm Liz Truss, Elizabeth said

I'm far sighted, said Liz, though I struggle to see
And I'm up against Rishi, who's richer than me
There is nothing unsavoury under my bed
You can trust me. I'm Liz Truss, Elizabeth said

There's wrongs to be righted, said Liz, I'm the one
To right all the wrongs what the government done
Though there's nothing at all going on in my head
You can trust me. I'm Liz Truss, Elizabeth said

© Gail Foster 20th July 2022

Mr Sheen

Imagine, if you will, the sorry scene
The morning after, when, for all their sins
You've had to go and empty all the bins
At Downing Street. You didn't want to clean
Who does? You spray a mist of Mr Sheen
And polish, then you pick up all the tins
With fag butts in, and bottles of fruit gins
With lipstick on, and wonder who has been
The twat who spaffed the red wine up the wall
Or drunk enough to decorate with sick
The silken carpets running up the hall
If you were rich you'd tell them where to stick
Their fucking job, their fag butts, and their wine
- You spray a bit more Mr Sheen, and shine

© Gail Foster 26th May 2022

Putin Had A Little Gun

Putin had a little gun
Some vodka and a sock
And planned to have a massive wank
But couldn't find his cock
It never had been very big
But now it was so small
He couldn't find the fucking thing
At all

Putin had a little gun
Nostalgia and psychosis
And rather, so was rumoured round
A profound halitosis
And everywhere he went he left
An atmosphere and smell
And a little pile of unused socks
As well

Putin had a little gun
Delusions and an army
And plans to overtake the world
That were quite frankly barmy
He'd always had his issues
And been proudly narcissistic
But now he couldn't come he went
Ballistic

Putin had a little gun
A lovely shiny table
A hidden room in which he liked 
To dress as Betty Grable
A wardrobe full of furry coats
And rather fetching hats
And an oubliette in which he kept
Dead cats

Putin had a little gun
It really was frustrating
'I only vant' he said, 'to spend
My evening masturbating
I've fantasies of papering
My Betty room with jizz
But I don't know where my tiny
Penis is'

Putin had a little gun
Some missiles and some tanks
And plans to rule the Western world
And crack off lots of wanks
The best laid plans of mice and men
Can oft go badly wrong
Especially when you can't find your 
Dong

Putin had a little gun
Some vodka and a sock
A nuclear intention
And a lot of novichok
Some thermobaric weapons
That were frighteningly hot
And a tiny flaccid penis that
Was not

Putin had a little gun
It often is the case 
That sexual frustration
Undermines the human race
Humiliate a little man
And dare to mock and scoff
And he'll soon find something else he can
Crack off

Putin had a little gun
'I vant to rule the vorld!'
He pouted in his mirror
With his top lip slightly curled
It used to work much better when
He dressed as Betty Grable
But yet again he found himself
Unable

© Gail Foster 28th February 2022

Fronts ~ a rhyme for Ukraine

There's many ways to win a war. With guns
You've got to have the bullets though for those
And someone's got to carry them. With tons
Of tanks. You got the diesel? Nothing goes
Unless there's diesel. Coming in a bit
Oh is it? See it come across the bridge
That isn't there. With soldiers that are fit
For fuck all when there's nothing in the fridge
You haven't got. We've got a lot of planes
Or will have when we've sorted out the fuel
And then we'll soon be splattering your brains
And blowing you from here to kingdom come
Oh will you now. "Don't shoot! I want my Mum"

There's many ways to win a war. With turds
Thrown over burning barricades. You got
A match? Too fucking right I have. With words
You fire them right and you can hit the spot
There's other things than bullets make you bleed
And other things than bombs to use to teach
That woman and the soldier and the seed -
In war there's also hearts and minds to reach
You take this seed, she said, and when you fall
In our dear country, from your lonely grave
Will come a bloom so beautiful and tall
That no-one will recall the life you gave
You're going to blow us all to kingdom come?
Oh are you now. "Don't shoot! I want my Mum"

There's many ways to win a war. Sun Tzu
Had lots to say on strategy, and still
He's widely read and what he says is true
But these days there are other ways to kill
And things that can be done by little men
So many ways civilians can play
That Sun Tzu didn't know about back then
How different a world it is today
So many fronts that it's a job to know
Which one to fight them on at any time
Flak jacket on, my friend, and off you go
And I'll stay here and write my little rhyme
“They're going to blow us all to kingdom come!”
Too right we are. "Don't shoot! I want my Mum"

© Gail Foster 26th February 2022 

Boris Had A Little Do

Boris had a little do
With biscuits and with cheese
As little bits of blossom blew
Upon the British breeze
It was against the rules but hey
As if he gave a toss
It was a warm and sunny day
And Boris was the boss

Be sure your sins will find you out
And somebody did tell
And everyone began to shout
'What is that horrid smell?'
'It's Boris Johnson's lucky pants
He coughed and followed through!'
And suddenly the sycophants
(Except for one or two

Or three or four or five or six)
Did hail a passing bus
And chucked him under it. Mud sticks
And no-one wants a fuss
'Alas poor Boris. Knew him well
But didn't want to be
Associated with the smell'
They said. 'It wasn't me!'

Said Boris, bleating like a lamb
His back against the wall 
'I'll go get Jonathan Van Tam
And he'll explain it all'
But silence was the stern reply
Expedience the crack
And so the shit began to fly
And Boris got the sack 

Or did he? Will he? Won't he? What? 
His fleece is white as snow
And even though he's lost the plot
There's still the book to go
'It wasn't me!' he said. But there
Was no-one left to hear
He ran his fingers through his hair
And poured another beer

And waited for the storm to pass
Which only took a while
For being of a certain class
And of a certain style
The shit slid off him easily
So shiny was his skin
And sure enough and sleazily
He slipped his way back in

And had another little do
With biscuits and with cheese
And laughter on the breezes blew
All through the London trees
And all was well for Boris, hey
For no-one gave a toss
It was a warm and sunny day
And Boris was the boss

© Gail Foster 11th January 2022