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
Racism
Hatred; a ghazal
The summer sun has stirred your seeds, hatred
A bitter wind blows through the weeds, hatred
Go pour another beer. Pick up a stone
Whoever shouts the loudest leads hatred
All blood is red. All children are our own
One love. Not everybody bleeds hatred
Brave in a crowd but coward when alone
At work, at home, nobody heeds hatred
Go snort a line. Pick up a traffic cone
All boys together. Hatred breeds hatred
Your country back? No country I have known
Here be all races and all creeds, hatred
Your flag is upside down, mate, and your tone
Is strident, hun. Hey, unmet needs, hatred?
There will be harvest when the weeds are mown
Love conquers all, love supercedes hatred
Call me a snowflake. Woke as to the bone
And God alone will judge our deeds, hatred
© Gail Foster 3rd August 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.
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
Racist Bloke
*
I had a racist boyfriend once, we’ll call him ‘Racist Bloke’
I dealt with the whole ‘racist thing’ by making it a joke
I used to call him out on it, and then I just gave in
Discarding my morality like fag ends in the bin
“Never argue with a bigot” I would laugh, and make the tea
“I’m not a racist” he would say “it’s witty parody”
It just got worse and worse, until we couldn’t watch the news
“Dirty Muslims this,” he’d say, “those filthy effing Jews”
I’d leave the telly off in case the sight of one black face
Would flush his chain and cause him to start ranting about race
And start blaming all the women who had ever given birth
In the dry and deadly desert, for the failings of the earth
He’d read up on the history of Jews throughout the ages
(it took him quite a while as there were quite a lot of pages)
Liked to rant about the Rothschilds, thought he’d got me with their riches
Expecting me to then agree that Jewish girls were bitches
“Women” he would say, “just shouldn’t have to wear the veil”
As if veil equalled jihad equalled every Muslim male
He was bad enough when sober, but when drunk it was profound
He’d be pissing venom down the pub like urine on the ground
He’d reduce a room to silence, and could empty out a bar
With his verbal racist violence, going further than too far
And then he’d order curry, oh he liked a bit of that
“Hey, did you know Mohammed was from some dark clot begat”
He would say as he was waiting for his naam bread and his bhaji
Like some hungry little Hitler rocking ‘rat arsed and Faragey’
It was painful, and embarrassing, it filled me with dismay
It was always, it was everywhere, and every flippin’ day
And yet really, to be honest, was I not as bad as he
All smug in my self-righteousness “I’m not a racist, me”
Sticking proudly to my principles in public mass debate
Whilst I broke bread with the shit and chose to zone out all his hate
In all that sick scenario ‘twas me that was the joke
I was the girl who sold her soul because she loved a racist bloke
*
© Gail Foster 2016
The Democracy Lark
The sweet song of the democracy lark
Once told of a bright and hopeful dawn
Now there is only a strident bark
And the whimper of sycophants that fawn
And worship the Trump and his massive wad
Lovers of money, with racist views
Vote for Mammon’s dodgy God!
The democracy lark is singing the blues
© Gail Foster 2016
Trump Flowers
To the tune of ‘Nelly the Elephant’…
2,3,4…
With dismay
We watch as he has his say
This is the man who would spurn the Koran
And send all the Muslims away
One dark knight
Who makes his intentions plain
Force Mexicans all to build up a wall
So they’ll never be seen again
On telly the hierophant Donald Trump
Is ringmaster of his own circus
On and on like a trumpety skunk
Trump, Trump, Trump…
Donald the hierophant set off a trump
That stank out the political jungle
Blundering on like a trumpety chump
Trump, Chump, Trump
Off-white white, is the colour he has planned
For painting the stage for his mad charade
Across the American land
What new trick is he going to perform
How bad can it get? We ain’t seen nothing yet
But the bonfires are awfully warm
The arrogant turd is appalling
Not far enough away
So wrong on the Right
With a haircut like sh*te
Followed through-out
The USA…
Oh…
On telly the hierophant Donald Trump
Is ringmaster of his own circus
On and on, like a trumpety skunk
Trump, Trump, Trump…
Donald the hierophant set off a trump
That stank out the political jungle
Blundering on like a trumpety chump
Trump, Trump, Trump…
by Gail
Well, Well, Welby
Well, well, Welby
Beg your pardon
He’s got three Poles
At the bottom of his garden*
And joining in with daily prayers
Some Syrians beneath the stairs
Asylum seekers in his shed
And Communists
Beneath his bed
He’s just doing what he can
To pander to the ‘common’ man
To separate the issues, see
Of race and the economy
With good intent to bridge the gap
‘Twixt logic and the racist cr*p
For Welby is a diplomat
Just in case, and just like that
It’s not that we’re a racist state
Good luck with that one, Welby, mate
Imagine pubs across the land
The dodgy banter, beer in hand
That Archbishop got it right
We’re all white mate, we’re all white
Share our wealth with all the planet?
Outrageous! (outraged Bob from Thanet)
But what of all the fish and bread
With which five thousand mouths were fed
Would Jesus Christ have found it hard
To put up Poles in his back yard?
by Gail
* A play on the words of an English joke, “Well, well, well, three holes in the garden!”
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