They Fought For You, Have You Forgot?

Shall I vote or not?

She died for you, have you forgot

Who fought for you so you can say

Shall I vote or not today?

 

Shall I vote or not?

She fought for you to have the choice

To use your vote, and use your voice

Or stay at home today

 

Shall I vote or not?

What sister are you who forgets

The suffering of suffragettes

So you can vote today?

 

Shall I vote or not?

They fought for you, do you forget

The women who don’t have it yet

The vote, or yet a say?

 

Shall I vote or not?

What, woman, are you mad or what

They fought for you, have you forgot

The price they had to pay?

 

Shall I vote or not?

My sister, listen, hear the sound

Of hooves of thunder on the ground

Lest we forget the day

 

Shall I vote or not?

They fought for you, have you forgot

Who fought for you so you can say

Shall I vote or not today?

 

© Gail Foster 6th February 2018

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Why Deal With Truth When Lies Will Do

 
Vote Theresa, and you may
See Brexit worries fly away
On fluffy clouds of pink and blue
Why deal with truth when lies will do

Vote Theresa, get behind
The flying pigs all flying blind
We’re just a turd on Europe’s shoe
Why deal with truth when lies will do

Vote Theresa, have it hard
She’ll get our ball from Europe’s yard
They love us really, yes they do
Why deal with truth when lies will do

Vote Theresa, what”s to lose
She’ll still have money for her shoes
And we’ll be in the food bank queue
Why deal with truth when lies will do

Vote Theresa, stable, strong
All good, and we’ll all get along
Nah, we’ll still be Europe’s twat
Hogwash, nonsense, tosh an’ that
*

© Gail Foster 3rd May 2017

Not In My Name

 

*

I wonder how she feels today

The Muslim girl I spoke to on the bus

The girl who had so many things to say

About how she feels free and safe with us

I wonder if today she feels the same

Dear child of the warm Damascan breeze

Cry God and Allah we are all the same

Not in my name, not in my name, please

*

© Gail Foster 23rd March 2017

Cosmic Micturation

On the alleged predilictions of Donald Trump

*

I wonder if, at Trump’s inauguration

There will be rain, some cosmic micturation

Anointing him with seedy sacred powers

In shimmered falls of blesséd golden showers

I wonder if America will see

An asset or a liability

In Trump, a man who likes to pay a whore

To do a pretty penny on the floor

I wonder if the world will froth and frown

Or take it on the chin, and lying down

Be sure the satirists will shoot their stings

‘Urine the Whitehouse now’, and sharper things

Some folk may whisper ‘Nothing new in this’

A President who likes to take the piss

What matter if the man’s a tad perverse

It could be sheep, or shit, or something worse

Oh, Bling New World, that suddenly we see

Run by a man who likes to play with wee

Hand on the button, fingers in the pot

America, you’d better like it hot

*

© Gail Foster 11th January 2017

Guilty Tory Crush; Kenneth Clarke

for Jemma Brown

 *

Alas, alack, I am undone, upon my cheek a raging flush

For I’ve discovered, oh what fun, I have a guilty Tory crush

You’d think, you would, a girl like me, a wafty lefty sort of bint

Would fain bestow her fancy free on someone of a redder tint

 …

On Dennis Skinner, him, perhaps, or Livingstone, you might presume

Or younger, pinker, backbench chaps, some decades nearer to the womb

But I’m for Clarke, for Old Blue Ken, a Behemoth of an MP

That wonder amongst Tory men; Kenneth Harry Clarke QC

 …

Girl, you say, you’ve lost the plot, the bloke’s a cad, a Tory cove

But I say Ken is steaming hot, unlike yer Howard, or yer Gove

But Girl, you say, he’s of the Right!  It’s wrong, so wrong, in many ways

Come back, come back, in to the light!  This thing for Ken is just a phase

 …

Much like the Mosley years, I say (which episode was far from jolly)

Oh that, well, mmm, a tough one, hey, I’ll put it down to youthful folly

But Girl, our Kenneth’s not yer man, he’s not your type, your type at all

And come the day shits hits the fan he’d have you first against the wall

Er…

God help me!  Look how dextrously he fondles that big fat cigar

Kenneth, take a turn with me, in some cool posh flash racing car

Or take me, twitching, in your hide, or show me how to dance to jazz

What price street cred, left wing pride, who cares when you’re as randy as

 …

Oh, Ken, Your Corpulence, you’re cute, your chubby cheeks are so disarming

The way you burst out of your suit; so boyish, and so fatly charming

You’re bad!  You’re good! You speak your mind!  But really, here’s the nub of it

A forthright man is hard to find, and frankly

You don’t give a shit

 *

© Gail Foster 21st October 2016

 

(Oh come on, girls you must agree, he’s got it goin’ on, has Ken

Just Jemma Brown?  Just her and me? Much more of Ken for us two then

Bags me first dibs then, Jemma, hey, you can have him when I’m done

I’ll have him early in the day, and you can have a later one

He likes a pint or two, you know, well rather more than that methinks

Me, I’ll have his morning glow and you can take him out for drinks

But maybe, mate, one at a time, no threesomes, even though you’re lush

Ha ha Jemma, here’s yer rhyme, about my guilty Tory crush)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Humpty Trumpty

*

Humpty Trumpty built up a wall

Of hatred and bullshit, in no time at all

So full of hot air and albumen

Bumptious Numpty

An egg amongst men

Trumpty Bumptious, sat on his wall

Infusing the air with a sulphurous pall

Obdurate ovoid, and odious smell

Truly Trumptious

The egg from hell

Rambunctious Trumpty, sat on his wall

A slug on his own at an ugly bug ball

Blot on the skyline, and bombastic bore

Humpty Dumptious

An egg to ignore

Dumpty Trumpty, sat on his wall

The King of the Fools looking down on the small

Dark is his shadow and yellow his yolk

Unctuous Humpty

The egg that spoke

Trumpty the Numpty, sat on his wall

Stirring the winds of the world to a squall

Summoning forces too violent to quell

Presumptious Trumpty

A shit in a shell

Humpety Trumpety, sat on his wall

Spitting out poison and hubris and gall

As stable and safe as a knife on a ledge

Precarious Numpty

An egg on the edge

Trumpty the Terrible, sat on his wall

The sun on his hair and the land in his thrall

Waiting to hatch from his keratin keg

Horrible Humpty

The dangerous egg

Humpty Trumpty; the egg with a plan

To set race against race, and man against man

Let us conjure a mischievous wind to unseat him

Fry him in Mexican spices

And eat him

*

© Gail Foster 2nd Sept 2016