Oh Palestine, dear Palestine

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

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 

 
 

Zero Hours Contracts…join the queue

Nine hundred and ten thousand at your beck and call
To come running when summoned and fill your shortfall
Nine hundred and ten thousand waiting for your horn to sound
For a chance at a grab at your phantomlike pound
Nine hundred and ten thousand waiting for your whistle to blow
To play in the game for a few hours or so
Nine hundred and ten thousand with a life put on hold
Standing in line like the dockers of old
Nine hundred and ten thousand with no peace of mind
On a merry-go-round of corporate design
Nine hundred and ten thousand just one text away
From the message that reads "No Work Today"



Copyright: Fishylyrics - March 2017