Monthly Archives: December 2011

Lucky the Elephant- A Poem by Prem Nick

Lucky was the elephant in the Ugandan park running free and happy,

elephant

Until the King of England shot it dead .

Near the thorny Achaea tree,

What a lark in the park .

HIS CONSORT ELIZABETH DECLINED TO SHOOT THE COW ELEPHANT CLAIMING IT WASNT BIG ENOUGH.

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Then time for gin and tonics back at the embassy .

That was sixty years ago,

And royals don’t shoot to kill any more the PR men claim.

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But what happened in the grounds at Sandringham ?

sandringham

Shot a bird of prey William?

dead-hen-harrier

They did it when no one is looking,

They are a bunch of predators that suck the life blood out,

And hunt.

Shooting hawks in a wood,

Or an elephant or two

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For they are inbred spongers that all should be kept in a zoo.

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Filed under Animal Cruelty, The Royal Family

A Cat Can Operate It- A Poem by Prem Nick

A cat can operate it.

cat-experiment
LET THE MAN IN THE GREEN HAT COME FORTH AND SPEAK TO THE BLOBS OF JELLY ,

Which in this era of media overkill,

Reflects the stagnating deep seated ethics of a long deposed verbose minority,

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Who live in boxes and collect new types of electronic inventions to satisfy their whims of their ever increasing materialistic fantasies,

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Lurid fantasies that come alive.

Is it so simple that a cat can operate it?

“I wonder,” said the man in the green hat to the millions of blobs of jelly,

“If a cat could drop or make an atomic bomb?

atom bomb

Is it really that simple that a cunt can operate it?

I mean a cat .

That is how the sabre tooth tiger became extinct.

Well?

And how is this, that in our world, we evolved into human beings from blobs of jelly?

Watching programmes on the telly?

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Are we so simple a cat can operate us?

And gives us fish from cod the fish and daisy the cow ?”

daisy

Poem originally released on Unrehearsed Wrongs LP- The Disrupters-1983

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The Queen’s Barge- A Poem by Prem Nick

Brain washing has begun Queens Jubilee,

ITN news “the Queen is on a roll,

After all the problems the royal family has been through”,

My heart weeps for them,

barge

Never do they have to be poor,

Protected and privileged.

Worth all the cash the lickspittles say,

parasites

They generate tourism and all that crap,

The propaganda claims.

A waste of resources,

A waste of time.

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Having everything handed on a plate,

While the poor and jobless made scapegoats by the state.

jobless

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Onward Christian Tories- A Poem by Prem Nick

Onward Christian Tories,

Onward as to war ,

With the king James bible,

Propaganda tools galore,

BibleWarning

Spouting Christian values,

The propaganda tool,

There’s nothing sacred any more,

By Cameron the fool.

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Onward Christian Tories,

Hypocritical words,

Spew forth with the cross of Jesus,

And the virgin birth,

And banks,

money

The credit crunch that bites,

Onward Christian Tories,

Evil policies bite.

poverty

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Boris Johnson- a Poem by Prem Nick

BORIS Johnson may seem like a Tory buffoon,

But he is not as daft as he seems,

Boris johnson mayor of london 

Crafty and crap and got a great knack of not being just what he seems,

Full of power grabbing plans and schemes .

Wanting to be re-elected soon,

Boris the batty Tory buffoon.

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Don’t let that facade fool you,

It’s subtle and cunning to rule you,

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And control the London police who sometimes might kill you,

With repression and state violence to control you,

boris cops

Boris isn’t as daft as he looks . He is the man that pulls the strings,

He crushes the poor at expense of the rich,

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And drives the Metropolitan Police to state violence

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Chloe Smith- A Poem by Prem Nick

Chloe Smith a Tory MP for Norwich North,

More snow white than twin set and pearls,

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A lush lipstick lesbian in the treasury.

Got a hairy top lip and a deep butch voice ,

She got in the peoples choice ,

She isn’t a lot of cop but some of the people have spoken,

Besotted by her youth and Tory enthusiasm .

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Good Rape, Bad Rape- A Poem by Prem Nick

Ken Clarke the dogs do bark!

Good rape, bad rape,

What a debate .

Hasn’t a clue.

His insensitivity knows no bounds .

Good rape bad rape,

A crazy debate.

Would he know how to help the victims ?

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A brandy addled hush puppy jerk,

Out of touch to the needs of the victims of violence.

Ken-Clarke-napping

A Tory twat.

A disgrace,

Why doesnt he shut his fat ugly face?

A disgrace .

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When Did Things Start to Go Wrong?- A Poem by Prem Nick

When did things in the world start going wrong?

Was it when the Mercedes hit the thirteenth pillar?

Diana’s tunnel of death!

When two planes crashed into the twin towers and all hell broke out,

War and destruction became the way of the world.

Twin-Towers

When a royal prince shot a harrier hawk,

The doves of peace retreating,

The area of global desecration.

War for our nation .

When will the golden age of peace,

Give us hope that wars will cease?

When fundamentalist fanatics turn to peace ,

Then the killing will stop.

When did things start going wrong?

And will we sing of peace a song of hope .

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The Bungalows of Sprowston- A Poem by Prem Nick

Platitudes of innocent people,

That you hear everyday,

It’s a nice day isnt it ?

THEY TAKE YOUR BREATH AWAY WITH THEIR OBSERVATIONS ON EVERY THING HUMDRUM AND DAY TO DAY.

What lays deep behind the masks they wear?

What goes on in the bungalows of  Sprowston ?

Deep ecstacy, depression, domestic violence, fear ?

How many mental illnesses lurk within those walls and doors ?

What people think of you is law.

Keeping up with the Joneses is the normal thing to do .

And out of the net curtains they spy on you,

It doesn’t matter if you are rich or poor it all goes on deep in the bungalows of  Sprowston ,

‘Cause when you look different they all spy on you.

“That’s that weird punk boy look!”  they say,

Going out of their way to spy on you,

Part the net curtains and sneak a peek at the weird freak,

I just dont care, let the neighbours sneak,

Better to be me not them,

What they do all day all year all week?

Pay the mortgage, council tax, mow the lawns, have another baby.

And when there is nothing else to do,

They send poison pen letters to you.

Dirty telephone calls to you too,

That’s when the facade of their lives comes out.

No they don’t vote like they did in Tottenham,

Not in the bungalows of Sprowston.

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