Silly poem

For some reason I had a yen to write some nonsense poetry today, no idea why. Beats working, I guess.
Anyway, here it is. Nothing political, nothing pretentious and no attempt at profundity, this is just pure, unadulterated silliness.

The Road to Tiralee

With a skip and a jump,
A hop and a trump (“scuse me!”),
Auld Harold took the road to Tiralee.

The crowds cheered goodbye,
With many a tear-moistened eye,
When Harold left on the road to Tiralee.

To those he passed he’d holler and shout,
Though that may just have been because of the gout,
On that road to Tiralee.

Through rain and through shine,
And the application of wine (“hic”),
Harold strolled along the road to Tiralee.

Eating his lunch in the breeze,
With the odd bit of cheese (“urp. Pardon!”)
Harold went further down the road to Tiralee.

Leaving smiles as he passed,
And the odd patch of gas,
He carried on down the road to Tiralee.

“Hiya Harry,” his cousin unexpectedly cried,
“Nice to see you,” auld Harold unconvincingly lied.
On the road to Tiralee.

And then he bid his cousin farewell,
Chucking him down a nearby well (“my hand slipped”)
By the side of the road to Tiralee.

With a shrug and with a sigh,
Auld Harold waved his sad goodbye (“well, he was family”),
And went on down the road to Tiralee.

But now suspected in a murder case,
The rozzers took to giving chase (“Stop in the name of the law!”),
As he ran along the road to Tiralee.

The stories say that he ran to the last,
But the fleet-footed coppers were just too fast,
Racing along the road to Tiralee.

With a final, defiant shake of his fists,
Auld Harold dove headfirst off the cliffs (“you’ll never take me alive!”)
By the side of the road to Tiralee.

Some say he survived diving into the waves
And works in a chip shop where he lives out his days,
Far from the road to Tiralee.

But most think he drowned,
Though no body was found,
Below that treacherous road to Tiralee.

In hushed whispers they talk,
‘Bout how his ghost still walks (“Wooooooo”),
Along the road to Tiralee.

Many have vanished, leaving no trace,
Aside from their hats and the occasional case
Lying upon the road to Tiralee.

So if you find you’ve developed a yearning,
Be sure to heed this heartfelt warning,
And stay well away from the road to Tiralee.

Cos auld Harold’s still out there,
Stopping anyone who dares
To try and take the road to Tiralee.

The Cost - more poetry!

One final poem (I promise!) about the death of Bin Laden and whether or not it was worth the cost...

The Cost

What is a man’s death worth?
What dark accountant calculates the sum of his deeds
And weighs it against the lives of others?
A brutal calculus of retribution,
A ruthless equation of multiplied loss.
Untold lives subtracted,
And added to the debit column
But the debt is never cleared.
In the final reckoning,
Can anyone truly say,
That it was worth the price paid
For the sake of vengeance gained.


Note: to give some background, in Afghanistan alone the "war on terror" has claimed well over 2000 lives from coalition forces
Source for coalition deaths

Estimates of civilian casualties are harder to find but at a bare minimum they number in the tens of thousands
Source for civilian casualties

All I've spoken about is the war in Afghanistan. That last link contains casualty figures for Iraq as well, which are substantially worse, but that was just too depressing to talk about.
In summary, war is bad, stop shooting people m'kay

Dance for me

This is a (slightly pretentious) poem I just churned out inspired by the ghoulish scenes of celebration at the death of Bin Laden.
Whatever crimes he may have been guilty of, I cannot bring myself to celebrate or glory in someone's death and the scenes of jubilation disturbed me deeply.

Dancing to the Tune

The circus rides into town,
Flags fly proudly in the court of the carnival king.
Cheering crowds, a baying mob,
Begin to dance as the rough music plays.
Primeval joy burns in mindless eyes,
Violent ecstasy for violence done,
Civilisation lost in vengeance’s name.
Bathed in blood, the revelry goes on,
Madness steeped in death, the basest lust,
No room for humanity here, only feral need,
Ghouls made of men, stamping on graves,
Dancing on and on until the rough music fades.


Historical note: rough music was an old English method for punishing people in a village who had transgressed (wife beating and so on).
Wikipedia article on Rough Music

Limerick

A quick limerick inspired by Charlie Brooker's #donaldtrumpisabellend twitter hashtag

This lad called Donald had not a friend,
He was a figure of fun, a topic to trend,
His brain it was feeble,
His hair barely legal,
And all would cry #donaldtrumpisabellend

I haz done a poetry!

A poem I knocked together earlier today, inspired by the language of the 2011 Budget and Cameron's "Big Society", specifically the manner in which the savage cuts being handed out to the fabric of British society are disguised behind a facade of "we're all in this together and have to make 'savings'" bullshit (yes, I'm biased, sue me).
But I also have hope that it's not working as well as Cameron and his pals would like. People seem to be seeing through the double-speak and getting justifiably angry at the way those who can least afford it are paying the price for the reckless gambling of financial institutions and the tax dodging of big business.
Anyway, here's the poem. It's a bit pretentious, though I've tried to offset that by writing the title of this blog post in a cutesy lolcat style - I can only apologise.


Twisting Words

Words twist and turn like serpents in the grass,
Shifting meanings with silken words
Spinning as they spill from crocodile smiles.
Semantic gymnastics warp lies into truth,
Through dark, cracked prisms, reality refracts
And the world changes on a rich man’s whim.
But seeds are sown, doubt planted in fertile soil,
Questioning tendrils creeping out,
Seeking and searching, truth brought forth,
A kernel of light stolen from grasping claws,
Fuelling anger, fuelling rage, un-blinding eyes,
Burning away the artifice of unearned power.
Curtains of privilege are rent aside
To mendacious puppeteers expose,
And with great and common hands,
The world can be reclaimed.

I'm alright, Jack

A quickly hacked together poem I wrote about the plans of the current government and the attitudes of the people who support them.
And I wrote it when I should have been working - now that's fighting the power!

I’m alright, Jack

Benefits scroungers?
Everyone knows they’re all on the take!
Ill and disabled?
Do me a favour, most of it’s fake!

It’s a bleedin’ liberty,
All these layabouts takin’ our cash.
That ain’t why we (the Great British Public)
Keep payin’ our tax!

I blame those lazy foreigners,
Stealin’ our jobs and all on the dole.
Like bleedin’ Afghanistan round ‘ere,
But me? No, no, I’m not racist at all.

So what if she can’t feed ‘er kids,
‘er own fault for popping so many out,
She only done it so she could get the benefits,
And get set up in a lovely, big house.

All of those bankers,
I tell you mate, they’ve got it sorted.
Course their bonuses shouldn’t be taxed!
It’d only be used to pay for abortions.

The head of the company?
Oh he’s a proper gent.
It’s all in his wife’s name, of course.
Totally legit, mind, none of it’s bent.

All in it together,
We're all a part of the Big Society.
No more spongin' off the state,
You don't get nothing for free.

Not my responsibility,
Benefits gettin' cut back.
I’m workin' for my dosh,
So I’m alright, Jack.

But now I’ve been “outsourced”,
And I’ve come down with the gout!
What am I supposed to do now, guv?
Any chance you could bail me out?