Monday, 1 July 2013

Middle English satire

Carrying on from a few recent political poems, here is one that's proved humorous and popular at a few open 'mics lately. UKIP are almost (only almost) too easy to mock, but it felt only right to do so in the style of an icon of 'Englishnesse', Chaucer.

Prologue to the Bigot’s Tale

A BIGOT ther was, and an unworthy man,
That from the time he first began
In politicks, he most loved bigotrie,
Lies and dishonour, racism and discurtesie.

Ful foule he was in spreading spite,
At publick meetings, dailye speaking shite
Evere mocked, and rightly, for small-mindednesse,
Like EDL and BNP, though I digresse;

Yclept Niggle, sonne of Farage,
Spawn of madde alchemist, I hear, near Harwich,
Brewed of toade all warty, slimèd slugge,
Bowelle tapeworm, fungal bugge;

The Petri dyshe felle onto the floore,
Out spillèd purple UKIP spores,
Sprouting tinie bile-filled colonies,
Infectious scabbes of xenophobe-disease.

The alchemist packed up his garage,
Fledde the unholie gene-spliced marriage,
Niggle grewe like wet-rot moulde
At first slowlie, truthe be tolde;

Until came Cameron, face alle smugge and greasie,
With his meannesse, made the Bigot’s task so easie,
To demonise the poore, the sicke, the needie,
Caste them alle as scroungers, slothfull, greedie;

Blame alle those who come from other places,
Feare dark skin, those scary foreign faces,
With their funnie food and trickye speake,
Niggle thinkes Englande was alle white untill last weeke;

A crappe pretender, afeared of Brussels and the Frenche,
Pretending that he speakes for us of common sense,
In truth his mouthe drippes ignorance with stench of kippers,
Did you know he spent his MEP allowances on strippers?

His loathesome crewe rowe their shippe of loons,
Alle swivell-eyed and ranting lyke baboons,
“No, no euro, we wante the pounde or better, groate,
Facts are of no consequence uponne this boate;”

“We wille be over-runne by hordes from Europe’s easte,
Africa and Asia - they come to steale oure benefittes and feaste,
On our good Britishe jobbes, it‘s alle their faulte,
Excepte the ones we lyke if they are goode at sporte.”

Great weighte of grosse stupiditie sank their rotten boate,
‘Twas ironicke that though fishie, these kippers do notte floate,
But sinke downe drowned into the mindlesse murke,
Now thinking Niggle was a plonker after alle, a burke.'

But the Bigot, he didde neither cayre nor see,
Too busy stepping lyke a goose in hys worlde imagin‘rie
Seeking votes like Narcissus at hys poole,
Not noticing alle otheres poyntinge, saying ‘What a toole'.

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