Politicos - Duncan Forbes

Over the past three years or so, I have been writing some topical and satirical verses.

Here is a copyright selection.

All the brilliant cartoons and caricatures are by kind permission of McBill of The Week (©Howard McWilliam).

PUTIN’S PALACE

Is this where Putin will retire,
Amuse himself and then expire?
A megalomaniac president’s
New unofficial residence,
A vulgar shrine to mega Me
And mausoleum by the sea?

Satellite images and drone
Have looked beyond the no-fly zone
At new Versailles, Las Vegas style,
With rooms and sofas by the mile,
Two helipads where once were three
And oysterbeds far out to sea.
The plans were leaked by builder’s mole
Shocked by the hubris of the whole,
This vile parade of stolen wealth
Derived from bribery and stealth.

Gold toilet brushes symbolise
The filthy roubles he denies:
Gilt tsarist eagles everywhere,
A fountain in a massive square,
An underground ice-hockey rink,
Two vineyards and the wines to drink,
Plus toilet paper holders which
Would seem expensive to the rich.
Though said to be Italianate,
The style is mafia-boss ornate,
The opulence of upstart rat
Turned avaricious kleptocrat:
A theatre and a cinema,
The gambling den, the hookah bar,
A room to race toy racing cars,
A venue with a stripper’s pole
Then church to cleanse the Russian soul,
Gardens and trees with flowing waters
Maintained by serfs in servants’ quarters,
Grounds guarded by the Thought Police
And Kremlin thugs on day release,
A Black Sea view and bedroom each,
A secret tunnel to the beach,
Another to a viewing-deck
And what in hell’s an aquathèque?
What music pleases Vladimir?
What does his greatness like to hear?
The whole estate is bigger than
Some nations and the Vatican.
And if all this seems too baroque,
Check underpants for Novichok.

(January 2021)

INSURRECTIONIST

How can one say Republican
Of that grotesque despotic man,
A megalomaniac microbrain
And would-be emperor Citizen Kane?
A mafioso and a bruiser,
‘You’re fired’ his watchword but a loser,
Litigious irreligious type
Who feeds on junk food and on hype,
A braggart, bankrupt and a liar,
Coronavirus-plague denier
But self-admitted germophobe,
A microbe who infects the globe.
And has he read a book for real?
Who really wrote Art of the Deal?
For Donald Trump read Tony Schwartz
And visit YouTube for his thoughts.

Manipulator of the truth,
A fantasist from early youth,
His orange hair a fraudster’s lie
Like red and phallic length of tie,
How could you re-elect that man
And not impose a total ban?
In overcoat horse-blanket size
From chest to rump and neck to thighs,
He walked up steps to Air Force One
Still having narcissistic fun
By giving marines a flip salute,
Melania mutinously mute.
The Stormy Daniels hurricane
Blew over quickly and in vain.

The over-reacher over-reached
And twice the bigot was impeached
And twice acquitted (by what right?).
Recall the speech to fight, fight, fight,
And then a mob beyond control
Stormed up the steps to the Capitol
And in the chaos that he bred
The riots left five people dead.
To think he had at his command
The nuclear codes and near to hand,
Ready to unleash fire and fury,
Regardless of the judge and jury,
Such as the world has never seen.
One thinks what is and might have been
And is it tempting fate to say
He’s gone for good. Thank God. Hooray?

(January 2021)

DRAG IT OUT DRAKEFORD

Pant Cudd

The slow delivery of speech,
That tendency to prose and preach,
The sonorous vowels and pregnant pauses
Invoking both effects and causes,
Something about his stance and collar
Suggest the windbag and the scholar,
Mark Drakeford emphasising caution.
He likes to see things in proportion
Beset by cogent caveats,
Expert advice and detailed stats,
Then gives his latest lucubrations
On virus and on vaccinations,
Coronavirus regulations
And devolution’s variations,
That noxious variant from Kent
(Where he to study Latin went),
Data, delays and later dates,
As if the wizard of Welsh fates.
A Latinist and cricket fan
Who is a prudent studious man,
He burbles on about the troubles
That mean extended household bubbles:
No café, restaurant or pub
Not even one in Llareggub
May open soon: few shops, no swims,
No crowds, nor super-spreader gyms.
This careful step-by-step approach
Sees creeping penury encroach.
It’s neither sprint nor competition,
That is the Minister’s position.
And as for Boris – Oh, ‘dear me,
He’s really awful.’ We agree.
So if you think he also fails,
Drop the First Minister of Wales.
You may not see your next-of-kin
Till outdoor canvassers begin.

(Spring 2021)

CORNISH WEEKEND

‘Are we meant to seem as if we are enjoying ourselves?’

H.M. Queen at the socially distanced ‘family photograph’ session for the G7 summit from 11 to 13 June 2021.

The press and television crews
Are pumping locals for their views.
A long weekend and time together
Depend upon the Cornish weather.
We all remember fog and rain,
Cagoules and money down the drain.
A summit on a Cornish beach,
It must have seemed a treat to reach:
It’s most unlikely refugees
Will cross the world from overseas
And land at Carbis Bay Hotel
Among its noted clientele.

Here comes the Queen who’s still alive
And doing well at 95,
The Prince of Wales, our future King,
A somewhat claret-faced old thing,
Camilla, Duchess of the place
Not known as Kernow to her face,
Prince William and his Princess Kate
To prove that Britain still is Great,
An indivisible UK
As Boris J is wont to say.

Joe Biden totters into view
While Mrs Biden Number 2
And Mrs Johnson Number 3
Are paddling in the shallow sea
To watch how Wilfred misbehaves
Beside the North Atlantic waves.
Merkel and Macron, gel on hands,
Are walking on the Cornish sands.
There’s Boris in a suit that’s new.
It doesn’t fit. They never do.
That’s Justin Trudeau with a beard
And someone else has just appeared –
Mario Draghi. Who’s that man?
It must be Suga from Japan.
Two Presidents for the EU:
Ursula von and Michel two.

It’s time to talk of sharing goals,
Of sausages and sausage rolls,
Of vaccines and of double jabs
Over the cracked claws of cooked crabs,
The threat of China, trade with Asia
Over the treat of small crustacea,
Spiced melon and gazpacho soup,
Sea shanties from a local group,
Then turbot roasted on the bone
And Cornish Ice Cream in a cone.
The cheeseboard’s patriotic too
With Cornish yarg and Helston blue,
Or Gouda for the choosy few
Who have a taste for bland EU,
But do not mention protocols
Or they will spoil the summer hols.
Then the Red Arrows on display
Lead social distancing astray.
Gasp. Aerobatics. Red, white, blue.
No contrail can pollute the view.
Many police are out in force
Which costs a fortune too of course
But all our taxes are well spent
If they reflect on Government.

There’s climate change then off they jet
On many air miles to forget
The fossil fuels already burned
As they arrived and then returned.
Oh well, there’s always next year’s meeting
To stop the world from overheating.

BLUSTER’S LAST STAND

(22 March 2023)

Was Boris Johnson speaking rot?
Did he mislead the House or not?
Is he so skilled in self-deceit
That he can lie and swallow neat
His frank distortions of the truth
Though taken on a bible oath,
The King James Version of his youth,
Lies or hypocrisy or both?
For once, his hair was vaguely couth
Or not dishevelled and distressed
And he for him was smartly dressed,
When he appeared this afternoon
To dance to the Committee’s tune.
I watched the whole three hours plus
While he maintained his bluster thus:
I truly thought we had abided
By rules we made and guidance guided.
I can’t remember where or when –
It’s pretty cramped in Number 10 –
I thanked departing colleagues, yes;
You can’t trust Cummings or the Press.
When James Slack left and then Jack Doyle
We had to burn the midnight oil
And Sue Gray – can we mention her?
No, right. Of course, I can defer.
Imperfect social distancing?
Well, hindsight is a wondrous thing.
All drinks were work-related booze;
The bottles in the shots are clues
And all the pictures taken were
By Downing Street’s photographer.
May I remind this great Committee
I nearly died but no self-pity:
It was an international crisis,
No time to dwell on petty vices.
I was repeatedly assured,
I’m sure I was – you have my word,
We followed guidelines and the rules
Just as we did at public schools
But we were dealing with pandemics,
Mutating germs, not academics.
A metre here, a metre there,
It makes a casuist despair.
Wherever possible, you see,
It all seems plausible to me.
In answer to your questions, yes,
The distances were more or less.
We can’t go round like bumbling fools
And measure gaps with metre rules.
A garden party? Bring your own?
But out of doors, a germ-free zone,
And not for long. Good for morale.
I led a team. I didn’t snarl.
Frankly, I was surprised to get
A Fixed Pen Notice from the Met.
That’s honest truth and hand on heart
The truest truth I can impart.
I’m not a heinous hypocrite,
A liar and a total shit.
I am the truth personified:
The man who thinks he never lied
And if your verdict’s otherwise
It’s you who’ll tell a pack of lies.

STATE BANQUET

(13 September 2023)

‘The least romantic date of the year so far’

When Kim Jong Un and Putin meet
We need to know what leaders eat.
Crab dumplings from Kamchatka crabs,
Salad and soup for spoons or stabs.
Since one is fat, the other lean,
Duck salad, fig and nectarine.
White fish soup from the Amur river
Is filtered through each leader’s liver.
For mains the tyrants face a choice
(Unlike their peoples with no voice):
Sturgeon with mushrooms and potatoes
(No armaments nor talk of NATO’s)
Or vegetables and marbled beef
(And from bombardments no relief).
Two wines are proffered, white and red,
(From Russia where no blood is shed)
And then it’s pudding or dessert
(Of course mass murder doesn’t hurt):
Red bilberries, pine nuts, milk condensed
(World peace is what they’re up against).

So what does each imperious brother
Require from Cold War comrade other?
They butcher people and they feed
On desperation and on need
Until each fears assassination,
Poisonous food or liquidation.
So Kim Jong Un arrives by rail,
A lumbering and armoured snail,
Aboard the Paranoid Express
At 30 miles per hour or less,
Pariah from a starving state
Transported north like bulky freight,
Pink leather sofas, bomb-proof steel,
As was the style of Kim Jong il.
And President Putin’s cold blue eyes
What does he want but fresh supplies
Of weaponry for more and more
Annihilating bloody war?
And so they come to drink and eat
World domination and defeat,
Then view Vostochny Cosmodrome
Where rocket-launchers feel at home.

POLITICOS

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