Rebekah Brooks – a Greek tragedy

Sharks feed on blood; fear is your food
Pale your skin, deadly your Siren's song
Fearsome spawn of a monstrous brood
Epitome of all that is wrong
Mistress of a chrome and glass lair
You are Cassandra, flame-haired one
Snakes writhe in your copper hair
You're a slave of the balance sheet
Your heart? There is ice there
You kissed Rupert's clay feet
For the pleasure of Moloch, his god
To keep the wrinkled old bastard sweet
You threw slimy Coulson to the plod
With false words and fake tears
You shafted your staff and kept your job
A faded ghost, you cannot hide your fear
You are not Medussa, you are Medea

NB: Terza Rima

Ode to Rupert

To Tom

And so, the old Moloch is moving in

His sterile mission to accumulate –

His burnt offerings are being prepared –

To monetise the assets of the state

Britain's being re-made for millionaires –

A Rupert-friendly Big Society –

The asset-strippers waiting at the gates

We're all in this together – except me

He would place a pay gate up in heaven

So as to exclude the poor, if he could

He's widening the eye of the needle

Murdoch is a Puritan; greed is good

There's plenty of sweet prey for the old beast

The problem in Britain is quality

He does satellite slush, sport and crap news

They buy a licence – for the BBC!

He likes the sneer of the playground bully

Requires his papers to pick on the meek

The world is merely his Monopoly board

I think I'll buy a new country this week

Eton Dave is putting the hours in

He is carefully crafting a new breed

A nation of servile proletarians

And country houses, where the rich succeed