They rose to the helm with bravado and cheer, But it seems that the circus has settled in here. With promises flashy, bold on the tongue, Now look at the mess where they’ve left us all hung.
Winter winds howling, fuel bills to soar, They said they’d provide, but there’s ice at our door. And freebies for Labour in a scandalous sprawl, Yet the clowns couldn’t juggle or balance at all.
“Smash up the gangs!” they declared with glee, Only for Rwanda to slip out to sea. Immigration’s a show of mayhem and fright, With no end in sight, just a botched border fight.
Israel left out in the cold, they abstained, Banning arms that defenders proclaimed. Pensioners pummelled, the poor set adrift, While jobs disappear like a magician’s swift lift.
Farmers now groan under tax-heavy loads, Food security crumbling, the last of the toads. And off to Chagos, they’ve ceded with flair, While Chaonians stare in absolute despair.
They’ve failed to deliver on every vow, From strikes to crime, it’s a farce somehow. They end disputes with billions thrown wide, Yet who foots the bill for this payout ride?
Prisoners freed early, a hasty retreat, While reoffenders march back to the beat. Their words in a muddle, their stance unclear, With CPS pressured, we’re left with fear.
Two-tier policing, the cries ring loud, But hold up a sign, and they’ll quiet the crowd. Send in the clowns, for there’s much to amend, The circus has started, and where will it end?
How bold a sum that Moscow seeks to claim, A sum beyond the worth of all the earth— $20 decillion, no reason or aim, A figure mocking reason’s humble birth.
Not all the wealth that nations might amass, Nor treasures stored within the deepest sea, Could satisfy this sum of zeros vast, A dream, a whim, a daft hyperbole.
Though Google’s power spans the digital age, Its market worth a modest trillion two, This claim, this charge, this legal, frantic rage, Soars higher than the courts could e’er construe.
For logic bends, and Moscow’s aims grow strange, In chasing shadows, numbers out of range.
So yesterday Tommy Robinson was sentenced by Mr Justice Johnson to eighteen months for “contempt of court”. If you don’t have contempt for English courts, you’re not paying attention.
As budget time nears on the scene, Defining “a worker” gets lean, A chin that does move, To “worker” they prove, While jaw droppers turn far-right, unseen.
The debt here in Blighty’s a towering mass, One hundred percent of our income—alas! Yet rumour has it, a budget’s in store, To raise fifty billion, or maybe some more.
They’ve vowed not to squeeze worker pay anymore, But where from, then, will they unlock the door? Raise employer tax? Now that’s rather risky, The exodus is making our outlook more misty.
For scaring off business is hardly the way, When we need foreign capital to come here and stay. Up National Insurance? Oh, what a mess— The staff, the rewards, will all shrink for less.
Then they eye the investors, but here’s the hitch: Cash slips overseas with nary a glitch. How they’ll seize that loot’s yet to be known— A game of chicken, for their geese have flown.
“Pensioners have savings,” they cunningly say, “Though taxed once before, let’s raid them anyway.” And capital gains? That’s ripe for the pick, Yet killing off growth quite a looney trick.
They redefine ‘worker’ with mind-bending spins, Counting only the folks who do tasks with their chins. So ministers playing their money-up games— Aren’t they the ‘non-workers’ of fanciful claims?
Well, I’ve a suggestion, a wise, simple plan— It’s one I’ve imparted to daughter and man: Spend less than you earn, let prudence remain, And see if the government try the same!
I’m the leader of a grand, ancient nation, With wisdom carved deep in civilisation. We’ve pondered life’s purpose, the stars, and our fate, But my government’s got a new urge they can’t sate.
They’re keen on a squabble with foes far away, With tech so advanced they don’t need to delay. This small distant land, with weapons refined, Could zap us all out at the drop of a line.
For they’ve got missiles with magical flair, That find me wherever, yes, anywhere. It’s futile to duck or dive or scoot, This missile’s locked onto my very boot.
So here I sit, all anxious and grey, As my government taunts them day by day. I plead and I beg, “Can’t we call this a truce?” But they’re grinning like cats let loose on the goose.
Then word arrives with a rumbling roar, My adversary’s launched their debating war! A missile en route, aimed straight at my head, With a blast range wide enough to leave us all dead.
Now here’s my grand choice, with little reprieve: Run to the desert or just never leave. I could flee alone, let my legacy burn, Or march to the palace, and take them in turn.
So I’m off to the halls where policies brew, To sit with the lot who’ve landed me through— If I’m going down, then down we’ll all go, In the ultimate lesson: “I told you so.”
There stands a voice, alone, unseen, With wisdom bright, though cloaked in dream, A whisper lost in crowded air, Yet holding truth, beyond despair.
The quiet call for what is right, Drowns beneath the blinding light, Of those who sell the empty creed, Who shout with power, plant the seed.
The bus-side boasts, the posters bold, With lies of futures bought and sold, To sway the crowd, to blur the view, The wealth amassed by just a few.
The pensioners, the frail, the meek, Who find their fight but cannot speak, Their struggles lost in silvered halls, Where silence echoes in the walls.
Yet lone, a voice, begins to rise, In eyes once blind, it sparks, it flies, For freedom lives where speech remains, Where questions linger, where thought refrains.
Not all who challenge seek to harm, Nor stir the violent, nor cause alarm, But dare to ask, and dare to learn, In whispered fires, the truth may burn.
The masses find, in humble sound, A strength once small, now spreading round, As voices joined, the power grows, A movement born from silent throes.
Yet still the gatekeepers deny, Their golden pens still write the sky, And mute the words that dare to say, “Perhaps we’ve strayed, there’s a better way.”
But freedom’s voice is hard to bind, And truth will rise, though cruelly mined, For strongest is the one who stands, Alone, yet firm with outstretched hands.
No evil wears a single face, It hides in wealth, it shifts with grace, It moves the masses, paints the wall, But cannot crush the voice of all.
So speak, though few may hear your call, For every truth, though small, stands tall.
Oh, Keir Starmer’s hit his hundred days, And honestly, it’s been a bit of a maze. Promised us “change”—now, where’s that at? All we’ve got is a Tory copycat!
“Free Gear Keir” said he’d lead us right, But all we’ve got is one hell of a fright. Cutting fuel for our dear old nans, While tossing millions to foreign lands!
He’ll “smash the gangs,” he did declare, But now the boats? They’re everywhere! Thousands arriving, no vetting at all— It’s like an open-door policy at a shopping mall.
He’s making mates with ol’ Xi Jinping, But with the Yanks? They’re on the wing. The Falklands? Well, they’re on loan— And Gibraltar? Spain’s on the phone!
Oh, and the schools! Don’t get me started— Private fees? He’s broken-hearted. Middle-class kids can kiss that dream, As Keir sails down the socialist stream.
So, cheers to Keir on his hundred days, But if this keeps up, we’ll all part ways. Sleaze, cuts, and a big migration boom— Who’s up for moving to the moon?
But don’t worry, mate, there’s always hope— Maybe he’ll smash it… Or just the envelope!
In the heart of the storm, where the winds cry for peace, The land of the people who’ve long sought release— Israel, surrounded, stands firm in the fight, But shadows grow darker; the day fades from light.
Once friends now fall silent, their voices grown cold, While the flames of injustice take root and grow bold. Politicians, once steadfast, bow low to the crowd, Drowning the truth in the noise, false and loud.
They court the few voices that scream with disdain, Turning from justice, embracing the pain. Forgotten are those who stand silent, but strong, For their courage and reason, no place they belong.
“Silence in the face of evil is evil itself,” Bonhoeffer warned us, though left on the shelf. His words, like a beacon, call out from the past— Yet still, we allow wrongs to amass.
The people of Israel, their history profound, Are left in the cold as their cries are unbound. A people of strength, through centuries long, Yet betrayed once again by a world gone wrong.
Golda once asked, “Where is the shame?” When good men are silent, we’re all to blame. “Our task is not to curse the darkness, but to light a candle,” But instead, we let fear our resolve dismantle.
We watch and we wait, as history repeats, While the fire of injustice consumes the streets. And what of the leaders who turn away now? Shamed beyond words, but they still take a bow.
We must remember, as the dark curtains fall, That a voice raised for truth is a voice raised for all. The cries of the weak, the pleas of the strong, Will one day break through the silence, lifelong.
So to those in the shadows, who cower and flee— History will judge what you neglected to decree. When the world turns its back and refuses to stand, We betray not just Israel, but every land.
Quotes Referenced:
Dietrich Bonhoeffer: “Silence in the face of evil is itself evil. Not to speak is to speak. Not to act is to act.” – Dietrich Bonhoeffer, German theologian and anti-Nazi dissident.
Golda Meir: “Where is the shame?” – Golda Meir, fourth Prime Minister of Israel, referring to the global indifference to Jewish suffering.
Rabbi Abraham Joshua Heschel: “Our task is not to curse the darkness, but to light a candle.” – Abraham Joshua Heschel, Polish-born American rabbi and Jewish theologian, emphasising action in the face of injustice.
Note
Every Saturday, we witness crowds marching, not for justice or peace, but in twisted support of murder and rape—their chants reverberating around the globe. Even more alarming is the sight of weak politicians, crumbling under the weight of these cries, giving in to demands drenched in hatred. This is not the 1930s, but once again, the stench of treachery spreads, no longer confined to Europe—it metastasises like a cancer, poisoning hearts and minds across nations.
Here in the UK, our own government, rather than standing resolute against terrorism, has instead chosen complicity. By resuming payments to the UNRWA, an organisation that brazenly supports terror, they act in the interests of those who seek Israel’s destruction. And now, they move to restrict arms sales to Israel—stripping a nation of its right to defend itself against the forces of evil encircling it. These are not mere policy decisions; they are acts of betrayal, paving the way for further violence, leaving Israel defenceless while terror is emboldened.
“Shut up, I’m trying to sleep!” I plea, But hospital visitors disagree, They chatter and clatter down the hall, Like a circus troupe that missed the call.
The beeps! Oh, the beeps, they never end, Machines that chirp and pipes that bend. A klaxon blares from who knows where, Maybe the ceiling? Or the doctor’s chair?
The nurses giggle, the doors go slam, I think I just heard a broken pram! But here I lie, eyes wide as night, Dreaming of quiet, holding on tight.
So shut up, please, just for a beat— I’d like some sleep. Just one retreat!
Verbal Alchemy 