I wonder which local tower block rooves
are nesting sites for rapier missiles?
Brooding sentinels, focussed above

for gatecrashers signaled by terror levels,
to hook onto the flailing Doppler shift
of that particular breed of evil

that seeks to blow up OUR Olympics.
Beneath the roof, some residents prepare
for imminent cuts to their benefits,

while job vacancies prove as rare
as bankrupt nations’ gold medal chances.
So jingoism circle jerks with fear,

we watch the sky for enemy advances
and ceremonial pyrotechnic flares;
’cause nobody is covering our arses—

our strategies are strictly ground to air.



The high faluting customer enquires
of the Pakistani til clerk at Costcutter
if she cast her vote to choose the London Mayor.

I interrupt and say I cast mine but it
didn’t prevent Boris getting back in.
She’s grins nervously and dashes for the exit

and we all know the nature of her sin.
I saw a blue tit yesterday, they say
you have to leave London to see these things

but if you keep a sharp, observant eye
you’ll catch all manner of unlikely creatures—
for wherever you are in this city,

you’re never far from rats or Tory voters.

Canto CCXL

Okay, daughter dearest, hear this right,
that crazy stuff each side of you is noise.
That crazy stuff in front of you is light.

The warbling beyond our curtain is
a Nigerian couple casting Satan out
of a bed provided by the NHS.

The NHS aren’t devils or devout,
they are the country’s socialist backbone,
the young nurses that once cried “Maggie out!”

are still walking the wards where you were born,
though the moral high ground that they tread
might soon be privatised by George Osbourne

before that hated, heckled Baroness
has sunk into her private trust pillows
to die a premium, elitist death.

Oh dear, I’m talking politics, I know,
it’s yet to stain the mind of your sweet ilk,
but since we’re skin to skin I must disclose

like Thatcher, my man boobs will not give milk.

Canto XCI

I could talk of bad teachers or nurses,
sure, I could relay a fair few stories,
but I’ll be stumped for yarns or pretty verses

when asked to name a single decent Tory.

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