Poetry

Whack-a-Mole

We’re shooting Gazans, that’s our goal
It’s target practice, not a game
Take aim and fire and…Whack-a-Mole!

There, over by the water hole
Hey some we kill and some we maim
We’re shooting Gazans, that’s our goal

Like skinny fishes in a shoal
All move as one and look the same
Take aim and fire and…Whack-a-Mole!

A few grains in an empty bowl
Is that for what these mothers came?
We’re shooting Gazans, that’s our goal

She’s running, that won’t save her soul
In vain, and shouting Allah’s name
Take aim and fire and…Whack-a-Mole!

We’re IDF, that’s how we roll
For Israel, and Bibi’s fame
We’re shooting Gazans, that’s our goal
Take aim and fire and…Whack-a-Mole!

© Gail Foster 27th June 2025

On The Occasion of Benjamin Netanyahu Quoting Dylan Thomas

Don’t tell me that you fight a righteous fight
How many children have you killed today
I’ll give you rage. I’ll give you rage alright

Your anger and your ego burning bright
Are razing all that’s standing in your way
Don’t tell me that you fight a righteous fight

How many have you sent into the light
Before they even had the time to pray
I’ll give you rage. I’ll give you rage alright

How many have you saved or sent in spite
Up to the sky in ashen clouds of grey
Don’t tell me that you fight a righteous fight

In clouds as those who in the fog and night
Were put in trains and disappeared away
I’ll give you rage. I’ll give you rage alright

You speak as if your soul was white as white
Yet deep inside you darkness holds its sway
Don’t tell me that you fight a righteous fight
I’ll give you rage. I’ll give you rage alright

© Gail Foster 27th September 2024

On Grassy Uplands By The Sunshine Lit


The poet sighed. What is there left to write
The Tories have all gone, well nearly all
The ones that there are left are really small
No bark to speak of, never mind a bite
They whisper to each other in their fright
Discussing who it was who dropped the ball
Or caused the sword of Damocles to fall
Upon them from so very great a height

I never could quite bring myself to piss
On Thatcher’s grave, nor shall I stop to shit
On Rishi’s monument. Nobody’s died
We bask in some sweet momentary bliss
On grassy uplands by the sunshine lit
What is there left to write, the poet sighed

© Gail Foster 10th July 2024

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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

Lucie Had A Lovely Tone

On the occasion of the Fulltone Orchestra’s grand tour with Lucie Jones

Lucie had a lovely tone
So clear it was and true
That everywhere that Lucie went
An orchestra went too
And everyone who went to see
The orchestra was glad
Not only were they glorious
But oh the Tone they had

Lucie had a lovely tone
So bright it was and clear
That everywhere that Lucie went
The angels lent an ear
The audience were mesmerised
‘How beautiful the tones
And magical the musicals
And voice of Lucie Jones!’

Lucie had a lovely tone
So true it was and bright
That everybody’s spirits were
Uplifted on the night
And Tone he had a baton
And a one, and one two three
In Reading, Bath, and Bournemouth
And in Cardiff by the sea

Lucie had a lovely tone
And Tone in turn he had
An orchestra with talent that
Did drive the devil mad
And what they did with music
Simply thrilled you to the bones
The Fulltone Orchestra
And Lucie Jones

© Gail Foster 25th April 2023

Composite image of Lucie Jones, Anthony Brown (Tone), and the FTO at The Forum, Bath, 29th April 2023 © Gail Foster

The Cynic Speaks of Love

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A Sonnet for Cynics for Valentine’s Day

*

The Cynic speaks of Love; What lie is this

But lust dressed up in silky swathes of lace

In pretty words, and promises of bliss

Come pouting in her petticoats, her face

All flushed with rouge and scarlet on a smile

With kohl around her cold come-hither eyes

Come lie with me, my love, a little while

She’ll say, and pat the bed, and part her thighs

And flash her stocking tops gone all awry

And secret places oh so sweetly blessed

And you’ll believe, the Cynic said, as I

Who once was by her magic so possessed

In Love, when she is nothing but a whore

That’s forty quid, she said, and that’s the door

*

© Gail Foster 14th February 2018