Dress Down Friday

September is the cruellest month:#Corbynpoems

I am not sure that Twitter has yet done full justice to the possibilities of the #Corbynpoems hashtag, and invite readers to contribute their own ideas. Here are a few examples to inspire you:

All changed, changed utterly,

A terrible Putin was fawned.

I have spread my dreams under your feet.

Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.

You infernal Blairite empiricists.

But soft! what light from yonder window breaks?

It is the left, and Jeremy the sun.

Weave a circle round him thrice

And close your eyes with holy dread

For he on vegan food hath fed

And people say he’s very nice

I have eaten

the bankers

that were in

the City

& which

u were probably

hoping

to tax

forgive me

they were greedy

and so fat

Roses are Red

Tories are Blues

My ‘friends’ are Nazis

But I love the Jews

Some of the best examples by HP readers can be found below

  • Flaming Faerie
  • ’Twas brillig, and the Burny toves
    Did gyre and gimble in the wabe:
    All Lizzy were the Kendagoves,
    And the Coopraths outgrabe.

“Beware the Jezzerwock, my son!
The jaws that bite, the beards that scratch!
Beware the OJones turd, and shun
The Laurious Pennysnatch!”

He took his Blairite sword in hand;
Long time the Marxome foe he sought—
So rested he by the Staggers tree
And stood in Brownish thought.

Then when his uffish huff was done,
The Jezzerwock, with eyes of flame,
Came whiffling through from Islington,
And burbled as it came!

One, two! One, two! And through and through
The Blairite blade went snicker-snack!
It wasn’t dead. It cocked it’s head
And bit the poor sod back.

“Thou hasn’t slain the Jezzerwock?
Get thee to fuck, you useless git!
O gruesome day! Throw hope away!”
He stomped off, in a snit.

’Twas brillig, and the Burny toves
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe:
All Lizzy were the Kendagoves,
And the Coopraths outgrabe.

Sarka

With deep apologies to A.A. Milne

Beardy man kneels at the foot of the bed
Droops on his manly hands grizzled grey head
Hush! Hush! Smear him who dares
Jeremy Corbyn is saying his prayers

Marx bless Hamas.I know that’s right.
Wasn’t it fun on the march tonight?
The West is so wicked and Israel so rotten
Oh, Allah bless Castro, I’d almost forgotten.

If I open my fingers a little bit more
I can see Putin’s dressing-gown on the door.
It’s a beautiful red, but it hasn’t a hood.
Oh,Marx bless Putin and make him good.

Mine has a hood, and I lie in bed
And pull the wool right over my head.
And I shut my eyes and shake off my shoes
And dream of a world without those….Zionists.

Ooh thank you, Marx, for a lovely day,
And what was the other I had to say?
I said, “Bless Hamas” so what can it be?
Oh, now I remember it, vote for me!

Quizblorg

If you invite Hamas, also Hezbollah,
And call defiantly them “friends”
If you ignore it when the critics holler
And, if confronted, quickly take offense

If you heap praise on theocrats medieval
And turn a blind eye to their words of hate;
If you deem anyone’s exclusion evil
And yet support a boycott of the Jewish state

If you consort with Holocaust deniers
And make your contribution to the funds they own
Then turn your minions into boldfaced liars
Denying that denial had been known

If your support for fascists is infinite
As is the thickness of those who support your run
Yours is the Labour Party and what’s in it
And – what is more – you’ll be its end, my son!

Sarka

It’s no go the Milliband, it’s no go the elections,
All we want is a prat with a beard and a load of deselections
His knickers are made of fairtrade flax, his shoes are made of plastic.
And Chavez and Hamas and Hezbollah make him enthusiastic..

Flaming Faerie

The sun was shining on the day,
Our Jezza won the fight:
He did his very best to warm
The hearts of Labourites–
’twas all in vain, because it was
A steaming pile of shite.

Burnham was wet as wet could be,
Kendall was dry as dry.
You could not see Yvette, because
Yvette was in the sky:
Her plane was flying overhead–
Escaping to Dubai.

Jez Corbyn’s little fascist friends
Were happy with the news,
But fumed like anything to see
Such quantities of Jews:
“If they were only cleared away,”
They said, “it would amuse!”

“If seven hundred men set out
To shoot all Jewish beings,
Could we be sure,” Nasrullah said,
“That we could catch those fleeing?”
“You silly sausage” JC said,
Profoundly disagreeing.

“I weep for Palestine,” Jez said:
“I deeply sympathize.”
“And in the search for peace”, he said,
“You have to compromise”
Holding his pocket-handkerchief
Before his streaming eyes.

“O Zionists,” dear Jezza said
“Lay down your bombs and guns
Let refugees come home again”.
But answer came there none–
Which wasn’t odd because his friends
Had murdered every one.

alang

They said, “You have a red guitar,
You do not play things as they are.”

The man replied, “Things as they are
Are changed upon the red guitar.”

S&A

We’re Corbyn backers pure and caring
And all our thoughts are right and just.
Trident must go and NATO with it.
Friend Vladimir we all must trust.
But if our leader meets with Eisen
Or shares a panel with Salah.

We will not care
We will not care
For he’s an anti-Zionist
We will not care
We will not care
For he’s an anti-Zionist.

We’ll say sorry for toppling Saddam
But not of course for sparing Bashar.
Ukraine can burn, and Yarmouk with it.
Bodies can strew the heights of Sinjar.
But if Americans bomb ISIL
Or Israel trades fire with Hamas

We’ll throw a fit
We’ll throw a fit
Because we’re noble pacifists.
We’ll throw a fit
We’ll throw a fit
Because we’re noble pacifists.

KB Player

(After Eliot’s Macavity the Mystery Cat)

Our Jeremy’s an activist, he is the brand new hope,
As he pushes Labour to the edge of a slippery slope,
He is the Blairites’ nemesis, the Old Guard’s dumb despair
But when you try and pin him down, Our Jeremy’s not there.

Jeremy, Our Jeremy, opposer of austerity,
His rivals are so timid, and he’s full of temerity,
But when his friends say, Stone the Gays, he doesn’t really care
He suddenly goes deaf and dumb, no Jeremy’s not there,
Islamist mates say “Holohoax”, and he’s not au contraire,
They’re anti Israel, that’s enough, and Jeremy’s not there.

Our Jeremy’s not besuited, no he’s not poshly dressed,
His shirt lies open for all to see the collar of his vest,
He is the man of Islington, and when he’s holding forth,
His is the stripped pine wisdom that pours from London North,
His world view’s very simple, all wars are Nato’s fault,
And as for intervention – no, he will call a halt.

Jeremy, our Jeremy, there’s no one quite like Jeremy,
His followers worship him, yea, amen and verily,
You can see him on a podium, cursing Tony Blair,
But getting a straight answer – our Jeremy’s not there.

He doesn’t live it large at all, politicking is his life,
He doesn’t go out dancing, or dining with his wife,
His idea of an evening off or joyous holiday,
Is standing at a rally, to damn the USA,
His mother marched down Cable Street, so he boasts with pride,
But he won’t detect a Fascist if a Fascist’s on his side,
At shirts of black and swastikas, his rants will fill the air,
But put them in a keffiyeh, and Jeremy’s not there.

Jeremy, our Jeremy, what aghastness from posterity,
That eager young politicos were dazzled by sincerity,
His beard is prophetic white, his frame ascetic spare,
But query his alliances, Our Jeremy’s not there.
And they say that the Andies, Lizzes and Yvettes,
Will be cordoned in a hollow square and stripped of red rosettes,
And old Labour door knockers will be promptly chucked
And social democracy is well and truly fucked.

Boyinthebubble

Yvette stood on the burning deck
Whence all but she had fled;
The flame that lit the battle’s wreck
Shone round her o’er the dead.

Yet beautiful and bright she stood,
As born to rule the storm;
A creature of heroic blood,
A proud, though female form.

The flames roll’d on…she would not go
Without her leader’s word;
That leader, faint in death below,
His voice no longer heard.

She call’d aloud…”Say, Corbyn, say
If yet my task is done!”
She knew not that the bastard lay
Unconscious with his gun.

“Speak, Corbyn!” once again she cried
“If I may yet be gone!”
And but the booming shots replied,
And fast the flames roll’d on.

Upon her brow she felt their breath,
And in her waving hair,
And looked from that lone post of death,
In still yet brave despair;

And shouted but one more aloud,
“My leader, must I stay?”
While o’er her fast, through sail and shroud
The wreathing fires made way,

They wrapt the ship in splendour, set,
They caught the flag on high,
And stream’d above our poor Yvette,
Like banners in the sky.

There came a burst of thunder sound…

Yvette, oh where was she?

Ask of the winds that far around
With fragments strewed the sea.

With mast, and helm, and pennon fair,
That well had borne their part;
But the noblest thing which perished there
Was Labour’s very heart.

Chesters

Jezza is sorting his peas
Tory-Capitalist-banker ones those
peace-loving humanitarians these

Yes or no, no or yes
Jez doesn’t cheat, he knows no untruthfulness

No blood is flowing, yet,
just fiery red birds with black hearts
which come from very different parts –
their plumage is ruffled as they alight, with delight

Coaches drive up to the Palace of Westminster door
and all right-thinking people bow down before

the self-appointed saviour

(apologies to Miroslav Holub)

Lamia

Mr Corbyn

(after ‘Richard Cory’, by Edwin Arlington Robinson)

Whenever Mr Corbyn came to speak,
We Guardian readers smiled from ear to ear:
He was a champion of the poor and weak,
Clean-sandalled and undoubtedly sincere.

And he was unpretentious in his vest,
And he was principled right to the bone;
He showed the fault was solely with the West;
In short, he told us what we’d always known.

And he was mild but showed an inner steel
That left our optimism reinforced;
An evening with his friends could make you feel
As if there’d never been a Holocaust.

And so we offered him the driver’s seat,
At which his enemies grew frightened stiff;
And Mr Corbyn, one september sweet,
Climbed in and drove us straight towards the cliff.

Ludwig the Terrible

Apologies in advance to the shade of WS Gilbert!

I am the very model of a leftie sex’generian
I’m friends with Hamas, Hezbollocks and Shinner Fein sectarians.
I know the West is all to blame – root causes historical
From Abu Ghraib to Shankill Road, and others categorical.
I’m very well acquainted too, with theories ideological
I quote from Marx and Tony Benn, I find them jolly logical.
No antisemite, yet I’m teeming with a lot of views
And many cheerful facts about the evils of Israeli Jews.

CHORUS: And many cheerful facts etc

I think people who vote UKIP must be pretty mean and weird
When nasty Tories vent their rage, I just laugh and stroke my beard.
When we overthrow the Government, end all this vile austerity
The blessed name of Corbyn will be remembered by posterity.

In short, in matters ethical, political, and proletarian
I am the very model of a fuckwitted contrarian.

Archibald Pitcairne

They fuck you up, those ‘friends’ you had,
Hamas and Hezbollah, too?
They make you look completely bad?
Well, you can say you never knew.

Archibald Pitcairne

Jez Corbyn, who was short and stout
And troubled with religious doubt,
Refused, about the age of three,
To sit upon the curate’s knee.
But mullahs were another thing:
Their praises he adored to sing,
And fascist clericals condoned-
‘My dearest friends,’ he oft intoned.

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