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.
In the land where the sun rarely shines, A steely-faced knight gives stern lines. Sir Keir of Starmer, born without cheer, His lectures make holidays disappear.
“Be serious!” he cries, as we sit and we yawn, His jokes are as lively as a damp, misty dawn. But fear not, dear Britons, satire’s not dead, For this government’s gaffes keep the humour well-fed.
The Tories before were a fine running joke, From Liz Truss’s delusions to Boris’s cloak. But Labour’s new ministers, oh what a treat! They puff up with pride and trip over their feet.
Caught in a muddle with cash and a pass, Sir Keir plays the part of the man with no sass. “The doors are now open!” he proudly declares, But only, it seems, if your wallet’s prepared.
The garden’s reclaimed, from parties and cheer, Though Alli’s own shindig was just held right here. Larry the Cat now serves us with pride, While Starmer attempts to keep cronies outside.
His problem, you see, is his righteous air, A halo that slips as the truth grows bare. Critics arise, but Keir cannot see, Why the nation is laughing at his morality.
Reporters with questions, how dare they inquire? “This cronyism’s rubbish!” he snorts, full of ire. For in his pure heart, how could he be wrong? It’s the Tories to blame, we’ve heard all along.
But now, as the British public observes, This knight of no humour is testing our nerves. With pomp and with priss, his speeches unfold, But his charm, I’m afraid, is already old.
So here’s to the future, as bright as it seems, With Sir Keir’s dull lectures and lofty dreams. The public may tire, but satirists cheer, For in this new era, the joke’s crystal clear.
In the heart of the NHS maze, Where bureaucrats spend their days, Sifting through my words with zeal, Oh, what a farcical ordeal!
A mountain of memos, what a delight, To shut me down, they write and write. “Do they not have better things to do?” I muse aloud, it’s quite the view.
Once I dubbed them “commie’s last stand,” And since then, I’ve been banned. Lockdown came, I voiced my doubt, Another pin, they poked and pouted.
A dissident, in their holy eyes, Against their sacred NHS skies. Spy on me, if you must, I’m game, But on public cash, oh, what a shame!
Astounding, a dossier soon to be, For this post, just wait and see. Fifty years in medicine, what a ride, Chief of WHO, I’ve been worldwide.
Hundreds of centres, thousands treated, Yet my opinion’s often unheeded. If politicians want to sort this out, NHS leaders must face a rout.
A big platform, my voice rings loud, But what of the silent, unallowed? In this toxic culture, voices choke, The NHS reforms, no joke.
Suffocated debate, we’ve seen the end, Fatal consequences, round the bend. A mess it is, from start to core, Listen up, NHS, it can’t get worse, I swore!
Resplendent in her Neapolitan crown, Joanna reigned, both beauty and renown. A queen of arts, of wit, of regal grace, Yet shadows lurked behind her lovely face.
Golden tresses framed a mind so keen, But whispers spoke of deeds obscene. Her husband’s blood, they say, stained her hand, A crimson secret in a sun-soaked land.
Oh Joanna, fairest flower of the south, Sweet words of culture graced your mouth. But venom, too, dripped from your tongue, As princes fell and kingdoms swung.
Accomplished, yes, in politics and prose, You played men’s hearts like virtuosos. But in your wake, a trail of tears, Of broken vows and mortal fears.
History paints you cruel and cold, Your beauty tarnished, your legend bold. Were you victim or villain, pawn or queen? The truth lies buried, forever unseen.
Joanna of Naples, enigma divine, Your thorns still prick across all time. A rose of passion, of power, of pain, Your petals scattered o’er your domain.
Verbal Alchemy 