After Fukushima: 0de to Sir David King

The sky is dark, I can’t breathe
Dead birds are falling from the trees
I know I am being naïve
About the polluted seas

I shouldn’t worry about
Persistent nuclear fallout
My fears are merely sophistry
I’ve learnt nothing from history

I’m an ignorant untutored one
Just a deluded simpleton
You’re the expert, David King
Nuclear power is your thing

You think this energy is “clean”
You like caesium and iodine
In the environment, one hopes –
Radioactive isotopes

You don’t fear mutagenicity
From this “cheap” electricity
The waste issue’s resolved
No terrorists. All problems solved

You’re the expert, David King
Nuclear power is your thing
It’s safer than poking a hornet’s nest
Nuclear power is the best

Eric Pickles' love child

NB: Eric Pickles. British politician currently in charge of trashing local government and its services as part of David Cameron's Big Society

Under the pier
On a moonless night
The moment was right
He was like a steer
Mrs Pickles went wild
It was quite mild
For the time of year
I'm Eric Pickles' love child

In his old car
He had an eight-track
No Massive Attack
But James Last's orchestra
That car had no rust
They were wild with lust
Venus was their star
I'm Eric Pickles' love child

As they strolled along
The wind from the pines
Aroused them like wine
The sea was a song
A stifled shout
Lay the blanket out!
Their passion was strong
I'm Eric Pickles' love child

The sun, the sea
That moaned and
Crashed on the sand
Like a symphony
The warm, scented breeze
Like exotic poetry
He even looks like me
I'm Eric Pickles' love child

The British Way

Revolution with hampers and tea-cups

I never thought that I'd see the red and black flag of anarchy flying over Fortnum and Mason's. A stirring sight!









Cairo, Tripoli and London today
Confronted by brute force, the state yields
But understatement is the British way.
The police, pushing us back with their shields,
Attempt to contain the revolution
Pink smoke blows down Burlington Arcade
Fortnum's displays an anarchist icon.
It's how our insurrections are made
With ironic slogans and paint, not tanks –
Take a sound system to your attack.
Masked youths, with sticks, flail at high street banks.
This season's colours are red and black.
In Old Bond Street, which shows the latest fashion
Thin young anarchists display their passion.

Stop the war

Ensure that a foreign tyrant goes free.

We can protest, without a violent end

But of what value is our liberty?

He is a Socialist, therefore our friend.

Utopia is for another day

Democracy is far too us; too now.

You see, it must always be far away

In the doctrines of Lenin and Mao.

Their casual murder was justified

To guard the purity of communism

From the enemies at the gate, outside

From us – it was merely altruism.

Put on your t-shirt, comrade, take your side –

A fashionable kind of genocide.

The red and the green

4/4 lively


G                            Bm
Shake a leaf for spring has come

             C                D
Just as she has before

C                                D
Smoke and pollen fill the air

                                    G
It’s the time of the balladeer

           C                     D

The saucy borage winks at us

                 G                            C
The hawthorn blossom’s here

                         D
The sun is a teasing friend

                                        G
At this time of  the year

 

Shall we follow, yes we shall

Behind the May Queen fair

We shall make a diadem

And place it in her hair

Policemen go the extra mile
And even prison wardens smile
It's not a time to swear or cuss
But to be of good cheer

Requiem

For a vanished England. Uh-oh been listening to too much folk music     3/4 time

          G                                                    D               G
The ploughboy and the milkmaid/Were walking one day
             D                      C                Am             D
When smoke from the factory/Did blacken their way
                                     C                      Am             D7
And the dust from the motorcars/Has darkened the lane

G                                                        D            G
We shall not see the old times/In the village again

              D                            C                    Am         D
Oh the cornflower and the poppy/And the violet so gay

                                              C                Am      D7
And the hawthorn and the mallow/Are going away

              G                                         D                G
Let us sing a sad requiem/For the Queen of the May

We have ruined the forest

With this greed of ours

The primrose, the anemone

The sweet woodland flowers

The hazel, the holly

The oak and the ash

Went into the sawmill

For the sake of some cash

Chorus

Yes, we’ve killed off the old ways

With our savage greed

The green man is dying

And all of his seed

The sky we have poisoned

The rivers run red

Even the skylark

In the meadow is dead

This news just in

Above, Liz Hurley, actress. You only need to read one story. And this is it:

Tube strike nightmare – end in sight.
Embattled MP staring at

Political abyss, last night.

Secret shame of bureaucrat

In late-night, death-plunge mercy dash.

Sex-change MP is my brother

Town hall boss sells wife for cash

Fury over Hurley’s lover.

Life inside for Satan’s slaves

Hurley man is pervy pest

Sex change curate went to raves

In kinky town hall man’s love nest.

Vicars leap into abyss

Toy boy lover’s final kiss.

Weirdo pop perv

Sicko paedo

Pop perv sex pest

London sex-game love nest.


Nightmare weirdo 
Red-faced mogul

Sex-probe music sex-test.


London sex pest

Pop perve sicko

Sex-game love-nest paedo.


Red-faced music

Mogul sex-test
Nightmare sex-probe weirdo.

Just Go With It – Jen and Adam

Sometimes there, sometimes not, it plays with us.
The sun's capricious at this latitude.
Casually, we hide our gratitude.
From a giant poster seen from the bus –
Exotic creatures in a heated tank –
Jen and Adam gaze at us, languidly.
They're looking from a place we'd like to be –
Clear skies, swimming pools, money in the bank –
America. They bring us something bright
It's a respite – a glimpse of liberty.
They don't have to worry, argue, or shout
Be thankful for blue water and sunlight
Or struggle to work, on the sixty-three.
Just Go With It, their latest film, is out.




Thanks to signor Petrarch for providing the form for this one. This is a film which I will not have to see, thankfully, as I am single. Hi to my friends in the US of A - and the Ukraine!

Rock at the Pawleyne Arms, Penge

The local guitar slingers are all here
They are slightly frazzled from work and tax.
It’s a golden blur of music and beer –
Come down to the Pawleyne Arms; bring your axe.
Dionysius beats up Apollo
In cycles, new forms emerge from decay
Good times are replaced by bad tomorrows
But, here, the old songs don’t go away.
The riffs are passed on from father to son
Battered and polished like prized old guitars.
Peter Green, Jeff Beck and Eric Clapton
Are remembered in these faded old bars.
Their hair is sparser now; these cavaliers
Revive the glories of their former years.

Penge is a suburb of London in the London Borough of Bromley. It is located 7.1 miles (11.4 km) south east of Charing Cross. 
Shakespearian sonnet: robust, reliable old vehicle with a large capacity, like a VW camper. 

Jeff Beck (pictured). Not as soulful as Peter Green or as flashy as Clapton; guitarist's guitarist.

Battleship grey

I’m saving up rain for a rainy day

I shrink at the approach of sun

Winter is good because winter means grey

A gale blowing horizontally

That is my idea of fun

I’m saving up rain for a rainy day

Don’t need a beach umbrella today

Beach hats or ice cream, which I shun

Winter is good because winter means grey

Soon, there will be lambs gamboling at play

And pigeons having x-rated fun

I’m saving up rain for a rainy day

On a warm bank holiday

To stay in is my intention

Winter is good because winter means grey

Skies without clouds would take that away

That’s not what I want. And did I mention?

I’m saving up rain for a rainy day

Winter is good because winter means grey

Gaddafi

Mainly, my people are no trouble

They are charming innocent children

It is my destiny to father them

My duty to teach them what is right

Sometimes, I chastise them, like all kids

With electric shocks and beatings at night

The false gods of the west are lures for them –

Education, freedom of speech, liberty –

And they are attracted by the Taliban

The glamour of the Jihad leads them astray

They really know how to party, those guys

With their long beards, drugs and Nescafe

You would like me, my friend, if you knew me

Tony found me a delightful host

In my Arab tent – if slightly flatulent

Tonight, it’s open palace in Tripoli

My grateful people are flocking round

See that guy with a rock – he loves me!

You helped me fill my Swiss account

Sold me your fighters and helicopters

You were kind over the Lockerbie thing

My allies were the far left and the rich

I was a pin-up boy for socialists

Did you know, I was born in a ditch?