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..

The Reality TV Producers With No Name (Part 160)

...........................................
.......................
..Abysms relinquish..

Colder than all the landlords of Neptune,
The reality TV producers with no name,
Floss their teeth with the wings of moths,
Then mouthwash with moss on drains.
Their Catherine Wheeling, fan-fire-fingers of slime,
Quickens the consensus-pulse,
Thus a new ill wind blows, floats the drones, repulsed;
Engulfs the lambs on the sands consigned,
(The difficult territories of managed decline),
So off-line, lost in forgotten time,
And, bombs, bombs away..

Imagine a snow-capped sheer Watford Gap Himalayan mountain range;
Imagine now an even more mythic iced, shellac Beyond:
An unforgiving desaturated tundra -
The uttermost bounds;
The spilling edges of England's media Grimm fairytale Earth:
Yetis, dragon penguins, polar ferrets, mushy pea caves;
The achromatic plains where unfettered swirling glottal accents echoing, reign.
To the reality TV producers' mind's eye, that's the north..

Here, they fancy, big-boned pagan shaman of the deep-fried chocolate pizza twirl and roam and,
Fornicate delirious sporting sacrificed badger skin curry condoms
'neath obscure race-memory Scandinavian avian gorging/purging gods..

Glaring mean, staring baleful,
Mean and beady-eyed, our Soho Illuminati,
Sway sickened seeming such primordial alien moonscape.
For its natives must appear to them like exotic, dangerous, grotesque, gargoyle apparitions,
Just gagging to be dunked and strung up,
Stripped away of their corpulent, malingering Cro-Magnon flesh,
Ready meals to swing to deliquesce from W1's studio foyers' plastic eves and grottoes,
Or to rot right here wherever slain:
Carrion for the ubiquitous circling pigeon vultures,
Squawking high above their decloaking cloud nine drones,
Engaging these perversely guacamole-free heathen dominions,
And canyons.

Too late now..

So, they shall live yet perish, here, there and there,
Shocked, stunned, dying undead;
Fresh victims of the camera-to-face combat-troops' dreadful stealth tech typology,
Contrived by deepest London media twattery,
Convicted locally,
Executed globally.

And colder still than no-win no-fee lawyers of Saturn,
These reality TV producers with no name,
Guerrilla their contempt and metropolitan hate,
Armed only with ragged, radioactive release forms,
And tabloids' heavyweight hate-myth sciamachy,
A flask of cocaine, courtesy of
the twenty-six thousand Mexicans slain and scalped annually,
And a jar of Manuka honey.
Sherpas caddie one, or perhaps two, skinny Kevlar ties, Fit For Purpose.
Thus, the dark arts ninja plume mirrors of smoke,
Evoke their magic hex;
Their affected empathic souls watched best on Teletext.

And so the reality TV producers with no name make haste,
To film their latest TV atrocity.
The reality TV producers with no name,
Like the NSA mini-me namesake, GCHQ,
They'll soon know so much more than just your name..

The reality TV producers with no name,
They post-rationalise, re-edit, crowbar nuance to cover their back:
The heart-warming story of a Romanian lap dancer,
She has a nice rack.
And because she holds a PhD,
The producers aftercare sought her some shelves to stack,
So why doesn't anyone mention that?
They mean, for balance..

Sure enough, the keyboard commandos brain bang simpatico
the hell-in-a-hand-basket cannibals,
Chip-in the righteous indignation spit-roast quill-killer merry-making.
All the media thuggery - the major entitlement beneficiaries,
Point to those apparently holding the trademarked hard-working families to ransom,
Clearly and irrefutably responsible
for every bad thing that happens.
So there's our impartial balance.

And if you think all this be bad,
Then you, my friend, are politically correct gone mad,
Yes, because Britain is entitled to feel had by
those mysterious warriors,
Otherwise known by our interweb's inbred as
The Brigades - The Politically Correct Brigades.
So, let it be written:
These twelve-foot tall lentil-munching killers?
They must have sixteen arms,
And curse in Sanskrit,
And shoot darts of molten ectoplasm from their pineal gland,
And abduct extraterrestrials,
And suck their brains out with straws:
It's their way of winding down for the weekend.
The Politically Correct Brigades,
Very tough bastards, aren't they?

Warm and soft and tender,
The reality TV producers with no name,
Chew our eyeballs burning bully pulpit zeitgeist,
Careful to lock-step their shedding stock-in-trade light.
All they do is point the camera, right?
Coincidentally, it's only reality TV producers who vanish
once they demonise and evanesce, unleash the trolls into the light,
So let's chant a mantra:
No-one forces them to be in the limelight..
And that makes everything all right.
And why not add a dash of the ultimate lie:
That the camera never lies..