Psychology

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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

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

Putin Did A Little Speech

On the occasion of Putin’s state of the nation address after a year of war in Ukraine

Putin did a little speech
The audience looked pretty shot
But sat and listened to him preach
Because they had to. Looked a lot
Like statues, as if some had died
Already, some were nearly dead
And some were simply dead inside
A rictus smile stuck on a head
And on he ranted, on and on
As one by one they fell like flies
Upon the floor - another gone
And then another - in their eyes
Was only darkness. Clear the floor
Said Putin, and then bring me more

© Gail Foster 21st February 2023

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

Sorrow Weeps For Me

*

In dusty cupboards, far from prying eyes

I hide my dark and private miseries

And dress for town in bright accessories

With reddened lips, and silkly stockinged thighs

And sickly smile, in magical disguise

For there be war to fight on days like these

Dark demons to defeat, and gods to please

And light to draw down from the sullen skies

…

In dusty cupboards, Sorrow weeps for me

There be no place for cowards in the fray

Nor dark despair, nor moaning misery

To dull my fire and fill me with dismay

Or worse, betray me to the enemy

– I’ll catch you later, Sorrow, I’m away…

*

© Gail Foster 28th January 2017

Bullshit Nirvana

bullshit-nirvana

for Steve Doolan

*

Let the world turn as it will

‘Tis all the same to me

Blah Blah Bullshit Nirvana

Sweet, Sweet Epiphany

…

Bring on the empty horses

For ‘tis all a comedy

Blah Blah Bullshit Nirvana

Sweet, Sweet Epiphany

…

We come and then we go

We be and we not be

Blah Blah Bullshit Nirvana

Sweet, Sweet Epiphany

…

I’m a bloke at a bar, I am

A wild bird flying free

Blah Blah Bullshit Nirvana

Sweet, Sweet Epiphany

…

So I’ll have a lime and soda, ta

‘Tis all the same to me

Blah Blah Bullshit Nirvana

Sweet, Sweet Epiphany

*

© Gail Foster 6th January 2017

The Fall of Camelot

*

Down where the bins were overflowing

On concrete where the cracks were showing

As weary winds came slowly blowing

A manky crow began a-crowing

Songs of Camelot

Through window dim the lady saw it

Heard it, and could not ignore it

Acknowledged, there was nothing for it

She had lost the plot

 …

She blamed the mirror, false perceptions

Embarrassingly dire reflections

Figments of her own deceptions

Misread signals, misconceptions

And bloody Lancelot

And other knights, they’d all been arseholes

Shites wrapped up in pretty parcels

Crawling back to rule their castles

When the day grew hot

…

And Good Sir That, and Good Sir This

She’d let them all just take the piss

So grateful was she for a kiss

Or any scrap of earthly bliss

That scraps was all she got

The last one, oh, he’d been a giver

Until the day when, all-a-quiver

He caught a catfish in the river

And her love forgot

…

Enough, she said, enough projections

All of you, take your rejections

Yer fish and shit, and your erections

Faithless hearts, and imperfections

For I like you not

With that she fastened up the latches

Made a bonfire, found some matches

And, as was mentioned in dispatches

Blew up Camelot

*

© Gail Foster 11th October 2016

Glad Eye

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for Steve Doolan

*

A man saw a maid, dancing high on a hill

She was wild as the waves of the sea

I’m thinking, he thought, that she’s looking my way

And she sure has a glad eye for me

…

I may do, I might do, but how would ye know

Whether my glad eye’s for you, boy, or no?

…

No, sir, she said, ‘tis a trick of the light

You’re deceived, for I’m looking elsewhere

And ‘tis only by chance that my mischievous glance

Has been caught by your curious stare

 …

I may do, I might do, but how would ye know

Whether my glad eye’s for you, boy, or no?

 …

How she danced, how she danced, on the top of the hill

How she swirled like a cloud in the blue

Appearing to flirt with a flick of her skirt

And the bat of an eyelash or two

…

I may do, I might do, but how would ye know

Whether my glad eye’s for you, boy, or no?

 …

She was here, she was gone, she was there, she was gone

As the moon on the wings of the fay

For a moment, the light, then the fall of the night

Then the smile, then the looking away

…

I may do, I might do, but how would ye know

Whether my glad eye’s for you, boy, or no?

…

Now your man was a no nonsense sensible cove

And time waits for no man, nor he

It was tea-time, and late, so he asked the girl straight

What’s with the glad eye for me?

 …

I may do, I might do, but how would ye know

Whether my glad eye’s for you, boy, or no?

…

She stopped for a moment, up high on the hill

And she blushed to the prettiest pink

Why, no sir, she lied, there’s just stuff in my eye

And your man is mistaken in drink

 …

I may do, I might do, but how would ye know

Whether my glad eye’s for you, boy, or no?

…

He thought for a minute, there wasn’t much in it

And tea had a finer appeal

So he bid her good day, in a chivalrous way

Doffed his hat, and then turned on his heel

 …

I may do, I might do, but how would ye know

Whether my glad eye’s for you, boy, or no?

…

Come back!  she said, ‘Twas all bullshit!  she said

Though my fancy is fickle, ‘tis true

You may take me, or leave me, but better believe me

I so have a glad eye for you

…

I may do, I might do, but how would ye know

Whether my glad eye’s for you, boy, or no?

 …

He thought to himself, she’s a right silly lass

But she sure has a glad eye for me

So he beckoned her down from the top of the hill

And took her back home for some tea

 …

I may do, I might do, but how would ye know

Whether my glad eye’s for you, boy, or no

For truly it’s really quite tricky to tell

Whether your man has a glad eye as well

 *

© Gail Foster 5th October 2016

Oestrogen Mythology

*

Beware, for she writes poetry, and ye

Unwitting pilgrim, may become a king

Anointed at the new moon, in the spring

Within an oestrogen mythology

Take care, for she writes poetry, and thee

Good man, may move her blood and heart to sing

Be crowned with oak leaves, bound within the ring

Become her ovulation fantasy

…

She fair may be, but subject to the pull

Of hormones, gravity, and tidal flow

She makes her heroes, though unconsciously

From those who touch her when the moon is full

She’ll cry and tear her hair out when you go

And pen progesterone tragedy

*

© Gail Foster 7th September 2016