Category: Political Poetry

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I Am Antonio Guttttteeeerrrrres!

Antonio Guterres speaking angrily at UN podium about unpaid United Nations dues

I am the Secretary-General.
This time the collapse is financial.
Not moral —
those have been rolling since the flag was stitched.

We are owed money.
A record sum.
We like records.
Most meetings per outcome.
Most languages per problem solved.
Most observers per massacre.

In 1994
eight hundred thousand people were killed in Rwanda.
We were present.
Presence is important.
We watched carefully.
We took notes.
Then we left.
Leaving is called restraint
when you have name badges.

In 1995
we declared Srebrenica safe.
The word safe survived.
Eight thousand people did not.
We reviewed our processes.
The processes survived.

Our peacekeepers went to Haiti
to help.
Ten thousand people died of cholera.
From the help.
We apologised.
Apologies do not require logistics.

We are neutral.
That is why the strong and the weak
get one vote each.
The United States pays a fifth
and speaks once.
Tuvalu speaks once.
Population eleven thousand.
Equality is very tidy on paper.

China pays.
China votes.
China sits on the Human Rights Council.
So do Eritrea and Sudan.
We put “human rights” in the title
to keep them nearby.

We condemn things.
Strongly.
Sometimes strongly-er.
The things continue.
But now they are condemned.
This is progress you cannot see.

We investigated Oil-for-Food.
Found billions missing.
Named thousands.
Prosecuted none.
Published a report
long enough to stop a door.

We have rules.
The rules say unused money
must be returned
to states that did not pay.
This is sustainability
as understood by people
who quote Kafka
instead of fixing things.

Our peacekeepers have guidelines.
The guidelines say
do not abuse the people
you are meant to protect.
The abuse continues.
But now it is against the guidelines.
This is accountability.

We may run out of cash by July.
This will affect operations.
Operations such as
watching
and expressing concern.

Please send money.
We promise to give some of it back
to those who didn’t send any.
That is the system.
We designed it.

Changing it would require a resolution.
The resolution would be optional.
Optional means ignorable.

I am not good at arithmetic.
Or prevention.
Or stopping things.

I run the United Nations.

Dedicated to Kenule Beeson Saro-Wiwa — Ken —
who spoke when silence was safer,
who wrote when truth was unwelcome,
and who stood for the land, the people, and the dignity of voice against power that mistook brutality for order.
May remembrance outlive repression, and may words continue where courage once paid the ultimate price.

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Echoes of Despair: A Reflection on UK Current Leadership

Through fog-bound streets where shadows fold,
The grey of dawn turns lifeless gold,
A weary land, where dreams have fled,
And justice lies among the dead.
The echoes of their voices fall,
Like muffled steps in endless hall,
Each minister, each hollow name,
A fragment of a broken game.

The Prime Minister walks a gilded line,
A robe too rich, a lawless sign,
His eyes, cold jewels, reflect no light,
But hunger for a darker night.
The Chancellor smiles with powdered grace,
A mask to veil her truthless face,
Her words, like ash upon the tongue,
Her promises, a song unsung.

Here, corruption wears a polished crown,
Its throne the rot of this dead town;
An anti-corruption knight undone,
The mirror’s work has just begun.
The lawyer once who battled laws,
Now pauses, burdened by the cause,
A prophet silenced by his creed,
His wisdom shackled by his need.

In distant lands, the borders weep,
For foreign soil was sold too cheap.
The Secretary, with careless hand,
Has signed away what once was land.
And here, a lie beneath the light,
A Transport chief, in guilty plight;
His falsehoods echo down the lanes,
Where justice drips like autumn rains.

The streets grow cold, the lights decay,
Where Safeguarding forgot her way.
She spoke of fears, her own, not theirs,
The victims left to climb the stairs
Of grief alone. The countryside,
Once vast, now swallowed by the tide
Of concrete blocks and panels wide,
Where energy’s green hopes have died.

The Home Secretary turns her gaze,
And lets the tides bring in their haze.
The laws are whispers, faint and low,
No walls defend what oceans know.
The Justice master sets them free,
The guilty walk where saints should be.
The clock strikes twelve in every school,
And silence speaks of broken rule.

This is the realm of dreary days,
Where leaders tread in shadowed ways,
Where life is cold, the spirit thin,
And failure reigns where hope had been.
Oh Britain, once of burning flame,
What sorrow clings to thy great name,
What leaders mock thy weary plight,
And drown thee in eternal night.

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Grass-Fed Delusions: Dale Vince Makes a Song & Dance of His Vegan Gas Fiasco

Oh, gather around, let me tell you a tale,
Of a tycoon named Vince, with ideas off the scale.
A Labour donor, rich and grand,
Yet dressed like a boy with a stick in his hand.

He dreamt of a world fuelled by grass,
Not cows or coal, just a vegan gas.
“On Britain’s margins, the grass shall grow,
Enough for the nation!” he claimed with a glow.

But the biogas mill? A doomed device,
With design so flawed, it couldn’t suffice.
Twelve million pounds went up in smoke,
And left poor Dale as the butt of a joke.

Once profits soared, now they decline,
From fifty mil to the red this time.
Subsidies vanished, the cash flow thinned,
Leaving Dale with projects binned.

But does he stop? Oh, perish the thought!
A new plant’s coming, with lessons taught.
Completion set for twenty-twenty-six,
Yet sceptics wonder: more cash to fix?

Then there’s his diamonds, lab-grown with care,
And Forest Green Rovers, vegan fare.
A football club where the players eat beans,
While critics roll eyes at his lofty dreams.

And let’s not forget the courtroom spat,
His ex-wife Kate got forty mil flat.
With Labour donations and gifts so grand,
She claimed her share of the marital land.

But still Dale dreams, unbowed, unbent,
With pylons rigged and millions spent.
Yet as Octopus and British Gas expand,
His empire stumbles, built on sand.

So here’s to Dale, with his schemes so green,
A maverick tycoon, a profit has-been.
For though he’s mocked from far and wide,
At least the grass is on his side.

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Justice Betrayed: The Plight of Victims in British Courts

Oh, justice! Where is your guiding hand?
In Britain’s courts, a fractured land,
Three arms of law now feeble, blind,
Betray the broken, torment the kind.

The Prime Minister speaks, but his words are a stain,
Shielding the guilty, dismissing the pain.
A nation’s children, their innocence torn,
While Westminster slumbers, complicit, forlorn.

The judges, the lawmen, the councillors too,
Turn from the cries of the girls they once knew.
For fear of offence, for fear of reprieve,
They bury the truth, and let evil believe.

Call it grooming? No, call it by name!
Rape, degradation, a nation’s shame.
Yet those in power cast victims aside,
In service of optics, they let justice slide.

The police, meant to guard, protect,
Became complicit, their duty wrecked.
One whispered, “It’ll teach her a lesson, you’ll see,”
A protector turned predator in tyranny.

In Parliament’s halls, where answers should rise,
Silence and obfuscation fill the skies.
Multicultural dreams built on deceit,
Left broken lives strewn at their feet.

Where is inquiry? Where is reform?
The storm grows louder; the grief grows warm.
But ministers falter, their vision unclear,
Protecting their ranks while neglecting the sear.

Sir Keir kneels for the causes afar,
But not for the girls left battered and scarred.
He speaks of division, of far-right bands,
While ignoring the torment at his homeland’s hands.

Justice, oh justice, where have you gone?
The song of the broken, their harrowing song,
Echoes through courtrooms, through councils, through time,
Yet no one answers for such a crime.

Deport the dual citizens, bring the truth to light,
End the silence that cloaks the night.
Let inquiry reign, let victims be heard,
Restore the meaning to justice’s word.

For the mothers who weep, for the daughters who fall,
For the soul of a nation—hear their call.
Three arms of justice, mend your decay,
Or step aside for a brighter day.

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Hope and Justice: A Rallying Cry for Britain 2025

I stand with hope, unwavering and strong,
Though the world feels heavy, though much seems wrong.
The mess we see, the chaos that reigns,
Cannot dim the light where hope remains.

My message is clear, my call to you:
You are not alone; we’ll see this through.
Though silence may shroud the decent, the wise,
British hearts beat with logic that never dies.

2025—the year of sense reborn,
A roaring truth through the mist is sworn.
Let them call us names, let the smears cascade,
We’ll rise undeterred, as the storms are swayed.

For wanting borders to hold their line,
To protect our home—it’s no hate of mine.
For putting Britain first, for taking a stand,
For the people, our values, the love of our land.

We are right—of this I am sure,
For smaller states, for economies pure.
To slash the tax, to reward the strive,
To let hard work and dreams thrive.

For shielding children from a creeping tide,
For truth, not trends, where facts reside.
For celebrating this nation’s might,
Our history, our gifts, our guiding light.

We are right—to demand the law be fair,
For justice applied without despair.
To help our own through winter’s chill,
Before the world gets what it will.

They would have you feel alone, betrayed,
But millions stand where our hopes are laid.
Decent, proud, and steadfast in fight,
Together we march for what is right.

So let reform be our rallying cry,
Through the ballot box, let courage fly.
No anger, no tears, no hollow despair,
Determination grows where we dare.

For Britain I love, for its soul so true,
There’s so much left for me, for you.
2025—let common sense reign,
Let hope and justice rise again.

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Healing Through Dialogue: End the Conflict

In fields where bullets meet the cries,
Where broken skies shield weary eyes,
Two sides have turned their tongues to dust,
And left behind the bonds of trust.

Leaders play their age-old game,
Trading peace for fleeting fame.
As war’s cold fingers, cruel and thin,
Entangle hopes and hemmed-in kin.

In homes where empty chairs await,
The echoes whisper tales of fate—
Of children lost and love that grieves,
Of letters soaked by tears and leaves.

Scholz spoke words that cut the air,
With courage rare to make them care.
A voice that dared to break the cold,
While others watched as war unfolds.

A “Pandora’s box”—they cried, enraged—
But peace cannot be cheaply gauged.
It takes more than warlike might—
It takes the will to dim the fight.

Zelensky stands, his people torn,
In trenches deep and weary worn.
He fears the talk, the weight of cost,
Each compromise a line that’s crossed.

Yet hearts can tire, the will can fade,
When war and death the earth invade.
The call for talks—be it naive?—
Is still a hope we must believe.

Families broken, homes now gone,
The breath of peace could right the wrong.
So lay aside the guns and pride;
Let courage draw the lines less wide.

For leaders who would feed the flames,
Who shield themselves with shifting claims—
May their tongues be tempered, soft,
May they learn to lift not scoff.

Peace is frail, its strands so thin,
But bold and brave souls can begin.
The war must end—the talk must start—
To heal the world and mend the heart.

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The Descent of Liberty

Beneath Westminster’s grey-stained spires,
The wheel of policy grinds our bones into dust,
A bloated beast, with laws spun from wires,
Coiled tight with venomous bureaucratic lust.

Elderly souls count pennies in trembling palms,
Taxed twice to keep the coffers fed.
While cold hands grasp ancestral farms,
Spirits broken, land bloodshed red.

Entrepreneurs pack bags for foreign lands,
Start-ups flee like whispers in a storm.
Treasure Island shackled by fumbling hands,
Burying seeds where hope once warmed.

In hollow chambers, debate becomes a mime,
Soundless screams pass through lifeless lips.
Policy inked in deceitful rhyme,
The ink of betrayal that drips and drips.

“Come for a chat,” the constable grins,
Non-crime etched in trembling files.
Liberty’s skin stretched thin,
Each smile masked with Kafkaesque guile.

Parliament convulses, a clockwork jest,
Where minutes churn and reason drowns.
The monstrous dance of tax and unrest,
A procession of clowns in tattered gowns.

Dark words echo down cobbled streets,
The farmer lost to silence, his land to fate.
A thousand voices in protest beats,
While Orwell’s ghost weeps at the gate.

A government failing, imploding within,
Rote schemes and blind masks lead astray.
Minds enslaved in logic’s grim spin,
As night’s chill devours light’s last ray.

And so, we march, heads bent to the storm,
Through corridors drenched in despair’s stain.
Darkness festers where laws deform,
Till the cycle begins again.

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The Political Circus: Unravelling Promises and Failures

Send in the Frowns

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?

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A Sonnet on the Folly of Russia’s $20 Decillion Demand

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.