No shit Senate

Climate change is real, the Senate sense,

No sense for the past thirty years or more

Yet still we talk of a crisis to come

While the world around begins to succumb.

The debate rages on as the tide encroaches,

The glaciers rumble and shake the shore,

The rivers dry and the estuaries crumble

While the senseless fat cats faff and fumble.

Why the conflict?

As the wasted in Paris waste the press,

Virginia steeps into vile recess.

The cesspit of minds these thoughts caress

Expand where once upon a time

It seemed though broken heads would fly

To far off lands from whence they came.

But back they come and fighting fierce,

Though never fair and ever near,

Each time the world descends under stress

The bastards turn on ones deemed less.

Conflict, it seems, is a crass necessity

Perpetuated by frustrated souls

In a world where many care but the cold remain

To keep the old order and minds the same.

Lament to the BBC

Dear BBC,
As independent as a suckling pig.
Your teat milking that pestilent swine
With pint in hand and back in time.

Snugly sipping tainted trickles
From swollen, purple-painted mammary,
Nigel laughs and casts us back
To where the world would want the past.

The other piglets squeal and die,
The green one's cold, the nipple dry.
The other, jaundiced, yet to pass
But still the cries are heard en masse.

The future's plain, the path laid bare,
As blue and red still curse the air
And purple jolts a sickly shiver.
The green pig shakes and the young ones quiver.

Mad Cow Disease

On the brink, we eat, we sink,
The billion burst their seams.
A billion more barely think
Of steak and chips but dream.

The sounds of chomping mouths surround
The West, now East some too.
From East to West the clouds caress
And choke the lands of food.

The cargo sails without the wind,
The wind carries poisoned spit.
The acid burns, the trees are lit,
The soya sprawls, the cows roam through.

No room for crops, no need to muse,
Grasses stomped by ruminant hooves.
The sand encroaches, land consumed,
The forests croak, their patrons doomed.

Happy

Life's too short to be miserable,
And misery is contagious.
I'm leaving misery behind
And striding into the happy light.

I was born to be happy
And happy I am
To crack a smile on faces,
And around people like me.

Weather trodden

It's hard to get your head around...
None of it is real.
Apart from maybe the bronzed pound coins,
The stuff you can touch, and feel.

If it has no weight, there's none attached
But still the interest accrues.
You'll pay that back, at once, for tax,
Then buy a pair of shoes.

Those shoes, at least, for now are real,
If questionably leather.
And in the name of cheaper shoes,
More money made, but they won't stand weather.

Twats and aristocrats

Money is the square root of foolishness squared,
Alas none of us, woman or man, was spared.
Opting out is an option we're without,
And while we've nowt,
The bullies' bullion's never in doubt.

Aye, screw the system, the system's full of nuts
But wobble one slightly, you're drowned in dust
As you tried in vain to shake off the rust
And the spanners up top,
Snap, and smite thee down in disgust.

Goodbye Black Rhino

The Western Black Rhino has gone, forever,
But who will be blamed for this saddening demise?
Poachers and hunters are easy to shame.

But shame on this world, as globalisation
Reaps its damnation on a war-torn land
Where borders were drawn over barely-sketched lines.

They weren't the first, they won't be the last,
While the palm oil plantations ceaselessly persist,
Next up it's Orangutans soon to be past.

Mind games, Ukraine

As nations blunder on the barricaded border
The gas streaks silently through pipes underground,
As still the connections increase the order
While the news inspires chaos of minds unsound.

 The world waits in wonder as charred chasms thaw,
Plundering ships sail toward the tumbling stream.
The fossils unfrozen awake from slumber,
Their blackened blood, boiling spills out through the seams.

The Houses of Parliament

I arrive at the Houses of Parliament gate,
Behind, lies Cameron's fat, shiny face,
Buffed with oily lacquor of peasant's elbow,
Varnished with licks of Osborne's sticky jizzum.

All around me I sense the sheer twattishness
Curdle my saliva, so I nigh on choke
On the fumes of politically tarnished lives,
Smouldering in piles of rechid manure.

Of a sudden, I might have spied the truth,
Nagh, 'tis Pickles gorging on an obese hen.
I'm engulfed by supercilious white men
As if Suffrage was just a smelly fart.

I wander into a bile-tainted bookshelf
Of crusty volumes spouting spurious pish.
An alarmingly loud babble of buffoons,
Rabbling nonsense as the toddler's tongues twist.

I cry for common sense, but my silent words
Are drowned beneath the seething, callous spit,
As a rain of ignorance drenches the stalls
And the thick, rising mucus throttles my wit.

And there is Milliband licking the drips,
The pandemic meets no antiviral drug.
The system is tainted, the infection persists,
As the candid cure drains toward the plug.