One Tragic Poet For The Admiring Damsel

this poem is on the tip of the tongue of the quill of these keys
this blank migraine screen taunts its winking bar at me
blinking and taunting my flapping imaginings
this blank migraine screen
a white-inked haiku lost in the snow
metaphorically speaking obviously

a molehill visionary
a pedestrian bewildered
that's me
like an empty wine bottle in a tea-total country
like an alanis morissettian simile about irony
ironically

it's like a poem when all you need is a pizza
it's like a rabbi wishing an imam happy easter
it's like a terrible lyric writer trapped on the moon in june
it's like a vaccum cleaner sucking into a dirty vacuum
but you outta know it's not like getting a blow job in a hospital theatre
or any kind of theatre for that matter
don't you think

but wait
don't read another's poetry my muse
sit down
allow yourself to bask in my enlightenment
damsel
adjust your wispy gossamer attire
twirl your tinkling hair through your delicate fingers
admire my downcast ruffling eyelashes
sparkling with the tortured bard's unforgiven tears
lay beside me as I read my new work
unbidden..

I'm a daffodil, I'm lonely, I'm wandering -
A daffodil wandering like a candle wanders in the wind -
on a hill
like a cake baking in the rain.
Isn't that so simple to see?
Why don't you understand me?
I'm a daffodil wandering, figuratively speaking, not literally,
Like a candle on a cake in the wind melting in the rain,
Like a train pulling something quite profane.
But why?
I thought we are all the same.

oh even if i say so myself
that first verse is phenomenal
and in one drafting too
what an exceptional poet i am
a first verse jam-packed with all the poetry goodliness
similies metaphors wikipedia
figurative imagery and allusion
sadness to suffering
elegance and originality
lashings of pathos
a sprig of madness
all invoking empathy and eroticised abandonment in you lucky lady
my musk never stills
cuddle closer damsel
we could have bliss for the next two minutes
four if you're really lucky
succumb my lovely

but first i must roll up my sleeves
this second verse won't write itself
blink your adoring gaze at me
i rock you see..

I'm a candle wandering not unlike a cake,
Now in the sea -
A cake in the sea,
Like an invertibrate - possibly indubitably, absolutely.
I'm a man, a daffodil, a cake, a train,
I'm a Maya Angelou poem,
Flooding in all the seas soaking in the rain,
But all in the wrong way.
A fistful of fish,
Don't be sexist.

I'm every shrimp yearning to be free.
Most women can't handle me,
Like a tree, green policy.
There's the door,
There's nuclear war.
Oh how nice:
No trees anymore, and no more of my poetry.
Now what kind of a world would that be?

oh wow i'm cooking now
this could well be my magnum opus
fetch me a silken cloth my damsel
wipe my glistening fevered brow
i musn't dither or slumber
well not yet
verse three throbs inside me like a sagacious vegan..
Nuclear war used to be bad.
I say we've been had.
Aren't we all tragic cakes left out in the windy rain,
Aren't we all daffodils wandering -
Wandering and wondering, running,
Like bewildered walruses of warbling pain?
Running under the mushroom,
And where there's wandering daffodils there's pain but no gain.
Isn't that what they say?

lucky damsel stay
why do not run so from my boudoir..
Guitar solo: waah waah waah uuhhhhh

Wave your light sticks:
You're fixed.
Poetry class dismissed!

Revolution Solutions

This borderline, the click,
Before the wayshower deiform projects his munificent rays,
A revolution-this, a call to arms-that,
A changing of the ways.
But first this ad displays a small box;
It states:
You can skip this ad in five seconds,
Monetising straightaway.

And in this valley of steaming mindfulness,
Lip-syncing sexily against the masonic symbols and signs,
This grand design masterstroke ignites the tinder-lit honeycomb,
Baptising innocent minds.
Draped in the kitsch visage of silk-screen Che -
Another nougat prophet fracking that socket-rocket -
Chocks away!

Pray then - I mean for the Fukushima fisherman, Gaia souls,
The Lord is clearly out of control,
Observe the Agents grin of kick-back lode,
All brought to you by.. relational codes and global modes,
Composed by the self-anointed, the chosen:
The nexus-intelligence loaded against you,
So generously urging you to believe in Love.

Though noughts of plenty lash against the Astral One,
The gnostic gnome shills the sun.
And bone collectors of Soul flower-press the sold,
Sipping leather scented acoustical saffron, chanting:
Everything for a reason happens.
Puppies paw for the crystal-pumping soldier:
Outlier outreach machine, the phantom inside the rage;
Another fat shepherd somewhere bedazzles calves under chemtrails.
And all that Love?
You paid.

The language of re option revolution,
Utilised to advertise corporate solutions,
And/or revolution.
The shedding Blue Star Kachina leaves Draco.

The Countryside Poetry Reader

If deeply moved I be to write, how wondrous this idyll is, so very, of countryside-poetry-life  hyphenated,
I would instill uplifting mustard windmills (sparingly) within such sagely mystical oranges.

So, of no particular butler nor daffodil, be:
A parson's egg nog wallow,
thatched burgundy meadow, glamorous frisky mallard, beekeeper's Plaster of Paris, 
my fern banshee for your two liminal hamsters,
jolly cahoots with the hopscotch ducking expedition, chief daffodil scrutineer.
Dimpled impish rabbit, cravat, sheafs of swaying church bells.

{end of part one}

You see?
Let's continue;
It shall become clearer.
Hedgerows and damp knees dappled, conservative blazer, 
Antichrist's mattress and hostess trolley adorned with his and hers;
imperial luxury verdant candyfloss thumbscrews.
Bertie won a lifetime supply of long-life jim-jams;
he couldn't believe his eyes.

Pay attention, I will be asking you questions,
No smack-and-tickle at the back!

Sprightly motorcar driving gloves, publican's distraught wife, her tawny owl embossed on glossy note paper.
Cricketers elbow, game bachelor's frosted tip snapping like Queen's crystal in the infamous anaesthesia Donkey blizzards of '53 -
and we'll say no more about it.
Headmistress's tips perky in satin,
fowl lawnmower with revolving gnome clippers,
parsimonious knitted atheist mittens;
scone, tramp.

Cups of Ceylon tea served in traditional Roswell saucers.
The thwacked balls on dominatrix leather.
Conserve tweed jam.
Unbecoming flashy door mouse.
Plimsolls of royal hooligans' pince-nes, King Rameses, garrulous banister, Elan Creams,
received Latin cabbage (Cambridge), the last days of the gravy merchants.

Mercurial street nun smoking a man-size cigarette under gas light,
her ruddy cheeks at play.

Beetroot doctor, romantic phantasm (with gout), nesting goats, mysterious gas explosion, vermilion meandering moonbeams
- perfect weather for secret maggot breeding.
Moth, awning, spry, fisting, bedash, badass.

***----****___~~=~~___****----***

Countryside -
Oceanarium saxophonists dwell under freestyle apple trees plucking low-hanging balloons, scherzo.
A napkin and the milk urn always in verdure-blossom.
Nearby fish bunting hangs above the ottoman airing violet fillets.
A "person" with colour pudding marble islands 'pon her nose jamboree.
Enid Blyton is.

Nostalgia: turpentine rations, and
Nothing beats that simple, unadorned joy of feeding crispy fleas to the budgerigar after gargle practice.

The army major plays dominoes with the poodles, custardly.
"Very" into conversations slipped in like marble tooth nylons.

How he glares comfortably at migrants singing songs about soda magnets,
As the sun-dried margarine sky blinks in European sing-song aftershave!

With the emphasis on -ing:
Snow falling over roman tattoo parlour ruins.
Words hidden in the undergrowth for the thrill of it.
Moth, awning, spry, fisting, bedash, badass.

As Needles Rotate My Eyes, Another Movie Trailer

He's back!

He's a cop.

She isn't. A. Cop.

He's a guy.

She isn't. A. Guy.

He's got a wife and kids.

She hasn't got. A. Wife. And. Kids.

He's on the right side of the law.

She isn't. On. The. Right. Side. Of. The.Law.
He's a vegan..

She isn't. A. Vegan.

He's a sagittarian.

She's not. A. Sagittarian. 

But. They've. Both. Got. A. Secret. They. Share.

A. Secret. That. If. Revealed. Would. Crash. Both. Their. Worlds.

Their. Whole. Worlds. 

Because

A. Secret. Revealed. Is. A Secret. Unconcealed.

Jessica Fawn-Comely... Antonio Badass.

In.

Cash. Cow. Cliche. Maverick. Cop. Movie. Twelve.

Not starring.

Gemima Romcom-Manniston.

In all theatres from next week.

The Latest Jimi Hendrix Lyric From A Parallel Earth, But First, The Weather

See that polygon-shaped cloud
seemingly floating upon a silvery sheep,
Next to the lilting stream-snowing sky tower,
Tumbling time a snow cascading spiral lily,
Dripping wispy cotton cumulus slip streams?

Pillows of steam tripping out the blue,
A three mile high ladder,
A flask of honey dew;
Jimi Hendrix, a parallel earth, playing the sitar,
And an alien astronomer there ponders the indigo cigar,
And wonders if out there -
in the parallel,
Jimi Hendrix plays the guitar?
Wow, she chuckles,
No way, that "out" would be too "far"!

Reality is as relative as your future-life grandma.
She rear-ends endlessly her four dimensional metaphorical reverie,
Drunk on sherry, probably,
dancing tipsy on a light beam.
"You know sonny,
Space gravity actually comes from the sun.."
The cosmic cop laughed, let her go
But confiscated her plasma guns:
Entering Orion, no entry for weaponised nuns.
Pharoahs' terms of love teem out their third eye
One and one is One:
The sun behind the sun:
Quantum Entanglement on stun.

So,
Here's a Jimi Hendix lyric from the parallel Earth: Moscow Sitar Baby

Moscow Sitar Baby
I sipped your rice through your nectar gravy
The slow boats to the Phobos obilisk
Drive this octopus crazy
Moscow Sitar Baby

Moon string metaphysics
Greek goddess inside the Antarctica pyramid
Black hole slips on a banana skin
You, my astral sun of Agartha
Let me be your ice rink
Moscow Sitar Baby..

The phobia obilisk
Is like a groovy stick of liquorices don't you think?
Moscow sitar baby
And I don't mean maybe..

[Track 3 from his latest Akashic record,
Cosmic Mermaids Calypso the Rosenbridge]

Weeding The Moonscape Of My Back Garden

Weeding the moonscape of my back garden,
Truly, it's a big deal.
Weeding the moonscape of my back garden,
My nerves shredding:
The concrete weeds, I steal
myself for this task Herculean,
I've delayed, I admit, for cosmic eons.

Bravely, finally, I resolved and booked one week's annual leave -
To prepare, to recover,
From this task that may take up to two full-blooded man-hours!

I'm impelled to enquire,
Must I find the power
to take on the abysmal brat of flowers?
Fetch me a flask of sports energy drink,
Complex sugar, I think, my devotional shrink.

You see,
I write poetry, so must I also do things?
Must I really stand alone on that flat dune of grey,
Pockmarked with such monstrous green swaying?
The weeds, they are almost thirty centimetres, and grimly rising!
I stare at them from the window, I'm not really crying.
Wouldn't you rather I just wrote this poem?
How many fresh dead poets does the world need?
I'd like to be a living tragic poet, not one that weeds!
(That's too tragic, even for me).

And, look over there! See!
I might get bitten by that bumblebee!
And I sneeze like a banshee when near trees;
Sometimes three sneezed sneezes I issue near weeds.
Yes, banshees do sneeze.

Weeds are angry wannabe baby trees,
I'm feeling quite I'll already,
So ill, I've just spelt it I'll.
Now that's I'll,
Sorry, ill.
Where's my quill?
I need to scroll the interweb,
Order some pills -
Those ones,
Exported from the moon, made in Hy-Brasil;
Those especial potions you don't require an ignoring doctor to see,
I must have illegal anxiety.
I'm a poet, it's my job, silly!
And -
I. Don't. Do. Wrestling. Weeds.

Yet, here I stand on the precipice,
There they sway taunting me,
The emerald streaked posse of thorny triffid pisse.

Well, here goes -
One small step for man, maybe,
But one giant leap for a poet such as this..

Strikethrough Haiku

Derivative Haiku

This awful haiku
absolutely terrible -
unoriginal

Cute Baby Haiku

This baby haiku -
Four too few syllables -
Aaaaw

Funky Zen Haiku

Cherry blossom monk
cannot read English haiku
but loves the Beatles

NSA Propaganda Haiku

Citizen is bad -
don't listen to Ed Snowden -
sleep on lillipad

Confused French Cow, Definitely Not Mad Cow Haiku

Muh muh said mad cow -
I'm not mad I just speak French,
muh is French for moo

Strikethrough Haiku

Strikethrough haiku ku
strikethrough striketrough haiku ku -
haiku strikethrough ku

The Dark Blazing

You were reflecting on the glazing lights
in your Christmas tree window;
On glass, the dark blazing.

Eyes in reflections' flames
lick below the lunar glaze,
The hologram waves, the crystal shaded tide.

The nocturne bird serenades,
Fashioning the forms silvery distances;
Her arrows of song, the night.

Let Me Be Your Bass Guitar

You brush across my heartstrings
Vibrates them like a bass guitar
You're the player
So am I the bass?
Let me be your bass guitar..

Arpeggios flow
We know the solos so..
This sparkling light alights our deeper sea
The stilled moon bathes as our rolling waves entwine
Where Love slips Time, eternally..

Let me be your bass guitar
Hearts duetting fingertips
Embrace the one plus one as One
The sum, the sound of Aum..

Let me be your bass guitar
Ripple your notes celestial
Space amplifies drunk by the sipping Star
The ocean seashells echo..

The Human Race Gets Even With Human Resources

[reader warning: this poem contains management language that may offend]

So,
Moving forward,
We're letting all of you, in Human Resources,
Everywhere you reign on Earth,
Go.

We're delighted to say,
The business case we've presented to ourselves is 
deeply compelling.

The outcomes of the revised human race determiners,
Tasked to maximise provisioning for humanity's spiritual uplift,
(essential restructuring and resizing owing),
Everyone senior in Human Resources,
And by that we mean absolutely everyone, 
Shall be energetically downsized, unmoored, and,
Let Go
with immediate effect.

Your employment contracts,
And moreover, your very operational hypervising on Earth,
Shall demise with extreme prejudice.
So, in your words, it's a win-win scenario.

Trust us when we say this decision wasn't easy - if it makes you feel better.
But please know, it was easy.
Our agenda is now the humans'item, prioritised:
Incoming: a tranche: the flood to drown the fallen imperators our tide!
So please go home and pack what you need,
For..
..you are about to undertake your most interesting goal-development-journey:
All of you have been procured by a violent and malevolent race of 
empathetic-to-our-need interstellar extraterrestrials,
Galactically-sourced, pioneering, quality practitioners,
Synergised to bleeding edge, urban myth actualising, alien abductor benchmark expectations.

We hope, dearest HR personnel,
When not engaged in your stealthy self-serving capacities:
Aligning with other senior managers stabbing utterly defenceless, junior employees in the back,
And gifting yourselves secret bonus payments for doing only that -

You are all avid viewers of the more esoteric UFO channels onYouTube?
So, then, you should be aware that since early 2014,
The aforementioned race of ETs have been stationed on the far side of the moon,
Keenly awaiting your tethered,
Muffled screaming,
Retina-weeping,
Body-thrashing,
Cyborgs' recycle bin things, arrival.

All the HR managers of Earth,
Relocated inside the subterranean crater complex,
Burrowed snugly inside the Sea of Tranquillity (an unintended irony),
Shall be familiarised very speedily with the aliens' live Star Chamber
extraordinary rendition practical implementation protocols.
ERPIP, put simply.

The Humanity, meanwhile,
Are scheduled to cosmically ascend.
You see,
We are to transform into benign fourth-dimensional crystalline, etheric beings.
So far, so Zen..

And kudos to the Pleiadian Galactic Council, and their divine intercession,
For it is they who await us in The Biosphere,
Packed to the gunnels with highest eternal love uplift.
So, ironically, you should see why you wouldn't fit in 
with this paradigm shift,
It's so not you,
So not human capitalistic.

Soon, we humans, shall while away our hours astral projecting to the stars,
Sipping Akashic nectar with time-flowing maidens in Arcturian bars,
Shadowing their dancing evanescent footfalls 'neath the scintillating Pyramids of Mars.
I won't bore you with it all..

You, the managers -
Outsourced to our preferred malign Grey alien contract partners,
The ones whose key competencies 
include the uptake-fashioning of DNA for sperm fission
and other related hybrid-race-making strategised deliverables -
They are also the designated stakeholders of your slithering souls, and body parts;
We have offered you to them on incentivised sub zero-hour contracts -
Our fervent reciprocation need.
It will also help us pay off the global debt.
More on this in a supported, timed-bio-break nano-minute..

The Greys' co-coordinators guarantee that you will be treated
with the warm respect,
Respect and amity you all fully deserve.
We, in the human race team are looking through you now,
So now who feels unnerved?

HR's collective soul shall float, spill and splinter under their ripped biomechanoid reactor sights,
Mash, enmesh and prong-split, deep drill and fry
within propulsive brain-in-batter martial stalactites,
Hallucinating, praying, frothing, dissolving;
Proposing urgent policy revisions like your life depends on it.
And that's before the real pain kicks in,
When they, in their incandescent indigo of iris, almond shape-shifting, 
ice-cold telepathic consultants' eyes 
get serious 
with their unsheathed skill sets.
May we refer you to their Welcome Pack.
Our Grey friends are nothing if not dedicated:
They and their Torture Milestone Key Learnings!

The constellation of Zeta Reticulans,
The hardest of Grey,
Will present you with ample opportunities to stretch yourself,
On the Blamestormer Mind Fang.
It's a ten-dimensional, zero-point bullshit detector rack.
Fit For Purpose.

Now, 
Should you fail your annual appraisal,
The Greys shall keep you for another year.
And if you pass your annual appraisal?
The Greys shall keep you for another year.

Our desired pain-giving pilgrims pride themselves,
Personally tailoring their ownership of your anguish,
And all informed by your own human resources' fabled quality assurance matrices.
Yes you, now re-baptised with your own ideological language 
by heretics 
repositioning your damned demographic as pan universe ad clickbait,
Broadcast live on all cosmic abduction porn channels, and platforms,
All nine-hundred-trillion..and three..and four..and five..

These newly realised self-generating revenue streams shall ensure
no one on Earth - the good ones - shall ever again want for anything.
So cheer up blessed and efflorescing florescent vacuumed sirloin!
Your ringing eyes, in curved space they shall bend,
And Bong of Joy!
Mint from the Aquarian Guantanamo, cosmogryal coin.

Please return your pass,
Please lift your backfilled gaze at the trees and grass.
Please smile your sincerest smile one last time.
Please cascade your shameless eyes across
our exit strategy feedback forms,
And please lie:
Let us know how really well we tended
the letting of you go,
How so gently we flowed you on..

Any questions?
Come on, you must have one.
Don't be shy now, don't you dare.
It's all in actioned development.

Dig For Acronyms

Defence Secretary, Philip Hammond,
Has feelings
        for drones.
He said in a TV debate recently
       that drones should be called unmanned aerial vehicles, 
Not drones.

UAVs, we may also call them for short.
Acronyms always sound more civilised,
Requiring less thought.

Drones - far too loaded now, 
Inferring their negative connotation: 
Collateral damage.
That's the damaged who happen to be dead too.

Soon we shall all use a drone,
Like a mobile phone.
They won't fire anything more harmful than a home delivery,
A book, a gift token.
Then it should be okay to say drone.

In this spirit,
They who suicide bombers swiftly fuse with their martyrdom,
Should they, their victims, be renamed
carbon-based life-deflated vessels,
Or CBLDVs, for short?
CBLDVs: more impartial, more balanced.
Such renaming would recognise the other's professional pride,
Their dedication, 
Their sacrifice.

Both would agree such comparison offensive:
One is not even remotely similar to the other, not at all.

This Theatre of Language is what it has wrought,
And what makes the naming so important: it supports.
The respected espirit de corps' narrative dirty wars:
Occupy, define, neutralise, numb:
Clasp hold the ripples while stoning the pond.
Never let go.
Never let on.

They Go To Food Banks For Bingo and Beer, But Should They?

This poem quite deliberately doesn't rhyme.

People who use food banks aren't entitled to a poem that rhymes. 

To most, that would seem pretty obvious, but.. 

If this poem rhymed, 

Soon enough the unemployed slash low-paid, 

(They're really the same: semantics), 

Deploying their astonishingly cynical levels of guile, 

Would then expect all poems written about them to rhyme. 

And where would we be then? 

The all too well-travelled slippery slope, 

That's where we would be. 

Exclamation mark.  

Edwina Currie, the venerable former Member of Parliament - 

Elegant, humble, susurrant - 

Confirms our worst fears: 

The so-called so-called food banks - 

The only banks left wing people trust (surprise, surprise), 

Sends out entirely the wrong message. 

That entirely wrong message:  

People who so-called work in so-called low-paid jobs, 

Are absolutely entitled to eat free tinned mushy peas, for example, 

Which totally (my italics) totally undermines Britain's responsible hard-working families (Trademark), 

The exasperated always-silent-majority, 

Who ask: 

Why should I work in low-paid jobs for my tinned custard slash tinned tomatoes,  

Or, God forbid, tinned mushy peas, 

When there are irresponsible (my italics),

Irresponsible hard-working families (not yet trademarked) that get all this stuff for free. 

Exclamation mark. Question mark. 

Free tinned tomatoes doesn't rhyme. 

And why should tinned tomatoes rhyme? 

Free tinned tomatoes eaten by the low-paid? 

Pretending like they are of the Eurosceptical elite, 

Vacationing in some fancy pants villa in Florence? 

Low-paid people eating tinned tomatoes? 

Next they'll be asking for artisan sliced white bread to stuff their face with

while playing bingo

in the thick hashish/opium smoke-filled food bank.

Pretentious moi they are. 

Ergo, 

I agree with our Edwina: 

Low-paid so-called people (people in complex inverted commas) should budget better;

It's so easy.

Easier than writing a poem that on principle must not rhyme, that's for sure. 

And where are my tinned tomatoes? 

No tinned tomatoes for Britain's struggling, tortured poets;

My head is practically falling off. But I don't complain.

No one asks me if I have tinned tomatoes. 

Double exclamation mark, plus one question mark.

Light bulbs don't rhyme. 

Amen to that. 

There's no excuse if they did. 

Everyone knows light bulbs, crushed, make for a wonderful crunchy snack. 

Poets eat them all the time. 

What's a little sore throat?

And crushed light bulbs are so low in calories too. 

So what more do these feckless low-paid want? 

Cement. 

Yes, I said cement. Exclamation mark. 

What should I have said at this crucial middle point in this poem that steadfastly refuses to rhyme? 

Cement, 

Cement mixed in with delicate garden twigs, cooked, can provide a heart-warming soup; 

Melts crunchy on furry car mat unsophisticated unemployed tongues. 

What cost of living crisis, I ask you? 

Oh look, that nearly rhymed. 

This poem almost turned liberal on itself. 

Almost. 

Edwina, a no-nonsense Tory, only says it like it is.

And let's thank little Baby Jesus for that.

And little Baby Buddha, and little Baby Prophet Mohammad.

In fact, let's thank all the important babies of history. 

None of them - none of them - ever used a food bank. 

May I might remind you this poem refuses to rhyme. 

I firmly believe low-paid people who, or is it whom? 

Whom use food banks? 

That makes me sound like Russell Brand doesn't it? Whom. 

Russell Brand, 

Whom does not use a foody woody banky, my liege.

His liege-tight trousers, throbbing hotter than a bingo caller -

A bingo caller celebrating frozen beer prices liketheydoenjoy (one word) liketheydoenjoy.. 

Badgers! 

Yes, badgers! No exclamation mark needed.

Badgers whom never rhyme. 

Should they? 

Why don't the low-paid get up off their backside,

And hunt that badger? 

With their flubberingdiabetesengorgedlazyflabberyfingers (one word). 

Boil the badger,

And use the wings of a tawny owl for garnish. 

Problem solved. 

Ignore Bill Oddie, kill and eat a possibly but not definitely diseased badger; 

Cut out the diseased bits, eat the rest. Man up!

And that badger, even diseased, deserves a poem that rhymes, more than you-know-who. 

Unicorn ear wax! 

Yes, unicorn ear wax. 

Someone had to say it. 

Unicorns are lazy, they ponce about inside the magic mountain. 

Low-paid public sector people, 

Flap thy bingo wings and run to the magic mountain, 

As fast as your rippling rivers of wobbling work-shy thighs can carry you. 

Bjork anciently chucked off cutlery from atop the magic mountain. 

Collect her cutlery, 

Only a little rusty now, 

And unleash your imprisoned badgers to dive on the unicorn, and, 

Smash its skull open for its marbled ear wax. 

Unicorns' ear wax makes for a wonderful condiment. 

Edwina Currie doesn't rhyme with poetry or unicorn ear wax. 

There's a reason for that: 

Low-paid people don't deserve it. 


*************************************************************************

Is David Cameron a Christian country?
Last week he asked you to decide.

Jesus rides his donkey
He has wine
He has fruit 
He has bread
And through the rain, just up ahead
He observes a throng
A throng outside the food bank -
Tears in their eyes..

Jesus though, looking through them, turns away
Scroungers - he whispers under his breath 
If I gave them all this
I will be sending out entirely the wrong message..
And he rides on..

A limosine pulls up
Jesus stops, the passenger-side electric window rolls down 
It's Gary Barlow..

Jesus sends his donkey on its way
Steps into the limo with the bread and fruit and wine
And the limo speeds away..

So the answer is yes
David Cameron is a Christian country
He always was and he always will be
Gary Barlow has done a lot for charity..