Oh Palestine, dear Palestine How my heart aches for thee So cruel a world we live in That permits such tyranny Your homeland signed away to another To provide a sanctuary Who could have known the persecuted Would so soon the persecutor be Oh Palestine, dear Palestine How my heart bleeds for thee Walls and wire now strangle the air Where the lungs of freedom used to breathe Your people incarcerated in human corrals Trapped like goldfish in a bowl A temporal jailhouse for their bodies An eternal prison for their souls Oh Palestine, dear Palestine How my heart burns for thee It burns with anger deep and red It burns with indignity But above all it burns with a peerless pride At a spirit that won't be quelled At a people that shall not be broken At a will of iron held At a life of resistance all consuming As the toll of martyrs yearly climbs At your honour and your virtue Your enduring faith in heartless times Oh Palestine, dear Palestine One day you will once again be free And a land stolen will be returned From the river to the sea Copyright: Fishylyrics - 2019
Tell Harry That I Love Him
(This poem was written on behalf of my daughter Mollie to the lifelong British socialist, political activist and NHS campaigner Harry Leslie Smith after he was taken in to hospital with a life threatening condition. Harry died shortly afterwards aged 95)
Tell Harry that I love him Please tell him that I care Tell him that I'm worried If not a little scared Tell him of my admiration Of how I respect his honesty How I treasure what he's told me About his life, his history Tell him that I've watched his Labour conference speech Until I know it off by heart That I carry it within me Though we are generations apart Thank him for his words that painted pictures So that I could be informed About a life almost unimagined Before I was ever born Tell him I'll hold him in my memory As long as it may last But mostly, please tell him that I love him Whatever may come to pass Copyright: Fishylyrics 2019
If I had my time again
If I had my time again, I often wonder what I'd be Not that I'm complaining, life's been pretty good to me I've earned enough to pay the bills and buy the kids some treats I've put in the hours, grafted hard, can show the blisters on my feet It's just that some folks seem to find it easy to bring in the moolah With cushy jobs that get them big pads and fancy cars Not that I'm the jealous type, but I still can't help but dream If lady luck had dealt different cards how life might have been Maybe I'd have been a footballer on three hundred grand a week Although I don't fancy all that winter stuff in rain and snow and sleet And what if I was only decent and not a superstar I'm not sure the lads at Accrington drive around in jaguars Or a DJ at the Beeb, that wouldn't be so bad There's a pretty penny to be made, just ask the ginger lad But could I really stomach Jedward or Donny and Marie And what if I copped the early morning shift to start at half past three A politician's life seems easy, all hot air, sex and booze And expenses by the thousands for anything you choose But I'm a bit rough around the edges and I think that it might tell And I'm not sure my debating style would go down very well I might even consider something dodgy as long as I didn't go to jail With big bucks, perks and bonuses where it's impossible to fail A no lose game, caviar, champagne and a guarantee of wages by the million So, ... if I had my time again I'd be a director at Carillion Copyright: Fishylyrics 2018
Persimmon, Jeff Fairburn and the unholy stink of capital
Jeff Fairburn, remember the name His life will never be the same again Caught in the spotlight of the camera's eye With a seventy five million pound bonus he couldn't deny Couldn't deny, could barely speak As he slithered out of shot so mild and meek Leaving unspoken words polluting the air With a gargantuan stink from capital's lair The lifetime earnings of seventy men Signed off with a casual swipe of the pen And another eight hundred million spread around his chums What houses that might build, just do the sums Jeff, I'm sure in your world you're held in much high esteem For the way in which you used "The Help to Buy" scheme To jack up house prices subsidised by the tax of the many And syphon off the profits to make the few a pretty penny But in my world you're a thief, simple and plain Abusing a rigged system for personal gain And from this day on until you meet your god You'll just be Jeff Fairburn - that greedy sod! Copyright: Fishylyrics 2018
For Razan(In memory of Razan al-Najjar)
Ask not which Private fired the gun
That sent this sweet child to Martyrdom
Neither search the Sergeant’s name
Who lined up his troops to kill and maim
Demand not investigation, nor seek any testimony
For the guilty party is already plain to see
No rogue bullet left its chamber, no errant shot was discharged
And no words should be written that serve as camouflage
Half truths are lies and nothing more and should not be set in print
And I bear no stain of prejudice when penning honest words in ink
This was killing by instruction, homicide as policy
Yet one more wanton, heartless act in Zion history
So accuse me not of antisemitism for no race test do I fail
When I place in the dock for murder the State of Is-ra-el
Copyright: Fishylyrics 2018
The Angel of Khan Younis
Weep not for Razan Ashraf al-Najjar An angel now looking down from the stars A mother's daughter slain by a mother's son Picked off in the sights of an Israeli gun A white nurse's coat no refuge from the sniper's eye That fired the lead and watched her die Weep because she is just another one Taken in the blood soaked slaughter for Zion While a shameful, silent world looks on Copyright: FishyLyrics June 2018
An ill wind blows at Westminster(aka The Mother of all Farts)
Margarita Mayhem was a Tory Minister, the Prime one of the day Mayhem by name and nature too, even colleagues were bound to say She'd stumbled through her tenure leaving behind a littered trail But today's unholy stink at Westminster would surely be a step beyond the pale The PM stopped mid-sentence, her face turned ashen grey Her knees began to tremble and her hips began to sway And then it came from deep within, a force too great to stop Docking at the point of no return with first a moan and then a pop Clenched buttocks could do nothing and the pop became a mighty roar A natural gas eruption with methane at it's core The explosion echoed around the chamber while the PM shrank from view Her embarrassed eyes sought left and right demanding swift rescue Rise Grooling, Grunt and Fondle, faces a ruddy blush Like commandeered Quixotes and with voices very hush Mumbled meek apologies if they should be to blame Then settled humbly to their bench, heads hung in mock shame The blast at last was left behind but, oh boy, far worse was to arrive A malodorous funk so poisonous mere words could bare describe A punge so rich in sulphur, in rot and in decay A reek of pure malevolence passed through the House this day Hot air rises as it will and it crept from bench to bench MPs groaned, order papers waving, unable to take the stench At last The Speaker shouted "Order" and he held a steady gaze As the leader of The Opposition emerged visible through the haze Corblimey struggled to Despatch, yet determined for a kill And declared he'd had an email from Jean in Bexley Hill Who to put the matter bluntly was having trouble at one end And was there any remedy the PM could recommend Labour Members rolled in the aisles, huge cheers, rapturous applause Such wit and spontaneity from the leader of their cause What clarity of mind he'd shown in circumstances oh so dire This erstwhile Son of Sam was now the hero of the hour Cue Gable dancing lightly to his feet, his face still bore a tear Asserting this was just the type of hard exit that the British people fear The Greens cried "no emissions" while the SNP sat schtum And a voice from the back gave curt advice about a finger and a bum Enter a digit jabbing Skinnard, well known not to gladly suffer fools "Deeds speak louder than words" says he "and that one sums up Tory rule" Well, that sent the Tories in to frenzy and pandemonium ensued Insults were hurled and curses cast should a foe's face appear in view With retching still heard on all levels and no dispersing of the acrid cloud With bodies scrambling for the doors and Members tripping in the crowd With hands not knowing what they were groping - not unusual some may say The Speaker had no option but to halt proceedings for the day That evening the gig economy sprang sharply in to life Cleaners, Florists, Perfumers worked all through the night Lavender on every bench, scented candles, sweet bouquets By morning all was fresh again, no whiff of yesterday Also scheming hard that night the team at number Ten "Nothing has changed" squawked Mayhem but that didn't convince the men A cunning plan was needed to pin the odious blame elsewhere Especially as the whole Poohaha had gone out live on air Step forward Alexander Horace de Waffel Bilge, tousled hair and garbling tongue Who insisted he could come up trumps with an explanation for the ghastly pong "A draught of ale, a glug of gin and a few hours thinking time. That's all I need" said Horace while slurping down his wine Next day came Horace to the House, could he defuse this powder keg He'd consulted widely - GCHQ, MI5 and 6, and even Mystic Meg "I've unearthed the guilty culprit. I've had all hands to the pump" And professed it to be the Russians with a putrid cyber dump Even Bloomsberg at the Beeb didn't fall for that one and the PM's race was run Mayhem was ultimately done for after months of hanging on Crisis upon crisis had finally broken poor Margarita's heart But who could have guessed it all would end with the Mother of all Farts! Copyright: Fishylyrics December 2017
