Satire

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

Double Dactyls for Elon Musk

Dodgily DOGE-ily
Elon the wealthiest
Man on the planet made
Plans for the rest

Neuralink chips all round
Down at Guantanamo
Experimentally
Put to the test

Muskily Muskily
Elon the DOGE master
Isn’t he plotting the
End of mankind?

Quiet you, quiet your
Eschatological
Questioning, Epsilon!
Get thee behind

© Gail Foster 12th February 2025

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

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.

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

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

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

Hancock Goes Shopping

Matt Hancock went down to the shop
With his knob out. ‘It’s OK I’ll pop
A mask on my face
And leave plenty of space
And I’ve got lots of flags on my top’

Matt Hancock, enjoying the breeze
Round his gonads, went round by the cheese
And selected salami
Some gherkins, pastrami
Some wonky bananas, and peas

Matt Hancock then picked up The Sun
And saw he was in it. ‘What fun!
And, may I say
What a glorious day
For getting, er…everything done!’

Matt Hancock skipped out to the car
Where his bird (altogether now, ah!)
Was waiting. ‘It’s hot’
She said, ‘and you forgot
Your trousers again. You’ll go far’

Matt Hancock relaxed in his seat
With his knob out, and put up his feet
On the dashboard. ‘Drive on’
He said, then they were gone
Leaving skidmarks all over the street

© Gail Foster 25th June 2021