Entries Tagged 'Parodie & Satire' ↓

My PM’s a Womble

Melody

[chorus:] Oh, my PM’s a Womble, with an orange sash and a flute,
And when I’ve seen her lately, she’s sticking in the boot.
You’d think that she’d be finished, with no majority,
But such things are mere trifles in bourgeois democracy.

 

Throughout the campaign season she was nowhere to be seen,
You’d think Theresa’s on the run from the good old RUC.
the plebs can be so nasty, they won’t leave her alone,
but she’s so strong and so stable that she just campaigned by phone.

 

[chorus]

 

The press were in agreement that Corbyn was an ass,
Who simply couldn’t comprehend the British working class,
Everybody knows the workers are turned on by punishment
So behold the shock and horror when they hung the Parliament.

 

[chorus]

 

Theresa looked well finished as everyone would note;
Her own party debated: In the back or in the throat?
But our Ms May, she knew how to recover from the flop,
And so she found salvation in the Shankill butcher shop.

 

[chorus]

 

But over in old England the folks were really cruel,
It surely is a thankless job maintaining British rule.
‘Don’t call us Irish ISIS, we ought to break your legs;
There’s nothing wrong with ISIS, but how dare you call us Taigs?’

 

[chorus]

 

Well, Downing Street’s been done up now, the kerbstones have fresh paint
And everywhere the murals read ‘Theresa we’ll maintain’
There’ll be no more line dancing, and dinosaurs are banned.
Each day will bring excitement from Theresa’s red right hand.

 

[chorus]

 

The DUP in government is sure to be a blast,
But still you have to wonder: Can this marriage really last?
True, an hour with the Orangemen feels like an eternity,
But premature explosions are their speciality.

 

[chorus]

 

 

The Men Are Under Fire

Melody

CHORUS: Watch the fearsome fem’nist huns
Sign the letter one by one,
Surely you must realise,
The men are under fire!

In the comment threads of Facebook,
in the dark of early morn,
fem’nist succubi came running,
treating Frankie G with scorn.

Heedless of Higgins‘ plaintive verse,
which they called ‚pretentious shite‘,
they derided life’s great curse
of being straight and male and white.

CHORUS
It’s a worse fate than internment,
brutal as a Black and Tan.
No one with any discernment
Would share the fate of the straight white man.

Cruelly banished to the silence
Of an Irish Times op-ed,
They stand aghast as awful poems
Spew unbidden from their heads.

CHORUS

Proud we march behind their banner,
No matter what flows from their pen,
Greatly though the rest might suffer,
We’ll ask: What about the men?

On the fellas step together,
Fighting for their dearest right,
For no man is truly free
Unless he can be a gobshite.

CHORUS

The Ballad of Pepe the Frog

Let me tell you the story of Pepe the Frog,
who would have done well to remain on his log,
contenting himself with the mossies and flies.
But he gave himself airs, and that’s why Pepe died.

Young Pepe’s first words were ‚I’m better than this.‘
His fellow tadpoles said ‚You’re taking the piss!‘
And thus from the very day that he was hatched,
Our Pepe was known as the prick of the batch.

‘That’s it, then,’ said Pepe, ‘I’m leaving this log
To tell the world of feminazis and ZOG,
For then they won’t bother those who turn the screws,
They’ll blame it on foreigners, blacks, and the Jews.’

But soon, Pepe wondered, ‘Oh, what will I eat?’
But an earwig told him where the hunting’s a treat
And the tastiest brains all defencelessly roam.
So 4Chan’s fragrant bogs became Pepe’s new home.

He wrote to the log to tell of his new friends,
‘With Spencer and Bannon, the fun never ends!
We’re making the memes and dividing the loot.’
But he never expected the Antifa boot.

You’d think Pepe’s life was off to a great start,
He helped strike the fear into many a heart.
With Trump in DC he was loving the craic,
So much that wee Pepe did not watch his back.

‘Those lefties are cowards,’ he’d oft heard it said,
‘And if you turn up heavy, they’ll run off in dread.
They’re just keyboard warriors; they’ll run from a fight.‘
As Pepe’d soon learn, this was a bunch of shite.

That day on the streets with all his new friends,
Pepe’d never have guessed that his joy would soon end.
That frog was plain giddy as he took in the scene
Of boneheads with bottles and AR-15s.

When all had arrived, they were led by the cops
to a corner with a mosque and a nice halal shop,
and a synagogue offering a free Yiddish class.
Our Pepe looked forward to kicking some ass.

On such a great day for the men with white laces,
From emptying the bottles they were all off their faces.
The first firebomb they threw did not land with a crack;
It was caught by a comrade, who chucked it right back.

The bottle broke open, the flames soon drew near.
Pepe heard a voice say ‘get the fuck out of here!’
Some of his friends answered by raising their guns,
But soon found out that theirs weren’t the only ones.

Pepe made froggy cough sounds as he choked on the smoke,
And all his friends ran from the butt of their jokes.
He sat blinded by smoke, fire, and muzzle flash,
And the first boot to hit him belonged to the fash.

One after another, the master race fled.
Pepe’d seen better days, but he still wasn’t dead.
His frog eyes were bulging, and he had a hunch
That what he’d puked up wasn’t only his lunch.

Pepe wanted to run when a red and black boot,
Took both his legs clean off and rendered it moot.
He was stomped, and to add to his growing ennui,
He soon started a new life as cuisse de grenouille.

As he breathed his last, our wee fascist frog,
Wondered how things were going back home on the log.
The locals breathed easy, with nothing to fear.
And a white guy with dreadlocks shed Pepe’s first tear.

 

A True Statesman

Mr Speaker, these are frightening times. Everywhere I go, I see ordinary people going about their lives gripped by a profound sense of insecurity, even foreboding. As Members of this House, it is our duty, indeed our honour to do something about that. I’d go so far as to say that the desire to improve people’s lives is why we went into politics in the first place. I know that’s why I did.

All my life, both before and since I came to Parliament, I have been guided by my belief that there are no trivial problems. No problem is trivial for those who suffer it. All people want and deserve solutions to the problems that plague their lives, no matter how small those problems may seem to those of us who can claim tens of thousands of pounds in expenses every month.

And just as there is no such thing as a trivial problem, I believe there is no such thing as a drastic solution. Solutions either solve the problem, or they are no solutions at all. All anyone wants, and all anyone can ask for, is a solution that does what it says on the tin.

That is why I, as a member of the opposition, am proud to stand in solidarity with our Government in their bold and innovative proposals to deal with the problem of young criminals nicking things out of shops. Trivial, you say? Then you must not be a shopkeeper.

I have disagreed with the Government on many things, and I am sure I will disagree with them on many more in the future, but when someone gets something right, it is incumbent upon us to acknowledge that. The Government recognise that the only way to deal with this problem is to strike at the root. The Government seek to cure the disease rather than just treating the symptoms by asking the obvious questions: Where do these criminals congregate? Where do they plan their attacks on our nation’s economy? Where do they find a safe haven when the deed is done?

I have in my hands the Government’s White Paper, which summarises the findings of their extraordinarily exhaustive review of the available evidence. I hope that everyone in this House, including those who disagree with the Government’s plan, has at least taken the time to read it, because it deserves to be read.

After months of investigation, the Government’s researchers came to the conclusion that these criminals hide and conspire in the very symbol of innocence itself: Our nation’s playgrounds. It is from these cradles of our children’s dreams that they launch their daily attacks on our economy and on the brave men and women on duty every day at our nation’s off-licences. Greater cynicism than this is hard to imagine.

I have yet to hear any opponent of the Government’s proposal deny any of what I have just said, and so I believe I am entirely justified in taking it as common ground. We are all in agreement that there is a problem. We are in agreement about what it is. We are all in agreement that it is serious and that something must be done. Am I mistaken?

I would like it noted in Hansard that not even the left wing of our party disagrees with the Government’s and my analysis of the issue.

Ah. I’ve just been informed that he’s popped out to the lav. Well, we can’t deny him that, can we?

So all of us – supporters and opponents of the Government’s plan alike – agree about the nature of the problem, with one possible exception. One cannot help but notice, however, the gulf between the well-reasoned, thoroughly researched proposals offered by the Government and the simplistic response offered by the opponents of the plan.

Do they offer any alternatives? No, at least they offer no alternatives that are worthy of the name. All they say is that it’s ‚wrong‘ to put landmines in children’s playgrounds. They question whether it’s ‚moral‘. They claim it goes against their ‚principles‘.

‚Principled objections‘ are what separates the pontificating moralist from the statesman. We should always be suspicious of these appeals to principle, because they eliminate options. Moralists may have no problem eliminating potential solutions from consideration based on their ‚principles‘, but statesmen have no such luxury.

Imagine where we would be if statesmen were guided by a politics of principles rather than one of pragmatism and possibility. It hardly bears thinking about, for it is a world where the Spanish royal family might even today be denied their rightful place on the throne, a world where the arts would forever be impoverished because Picasso would never have been inspired to paint his masterpiece Guernica, Shostakovich might never have composed his Leningrad symphony, and Churchill might never have had the good fortune to be Prime Minister in what might never have had the chance to be Britain’s finest hour.

Where moralists can see nothing but maimed bodies and ruined lives, statesmen see the enrichment of history.

And whilst there are no trivial problems, there are always trivial obstacles, and statesmen do not allow trivial obstacles to deter them from great solutions. Great solutions like the Government’s Safe Playgrounds Initiative.

I do not wish to seem heartless here. The opponents of the Safe Playgrounds Initiative do not hold a monopoly on humanity. I, too, feel strongly that innocent lives must be protected, and I would not support the Initiative if the Government had not gone to such great lengths to craft safeguards in order to do just that.

Because I trust that everyone here has read the proposal, I note merely for the record the scientifically tested fail-safe mechanism that is built in to the proposal. According to the proposal’s safeguards, the mines will be used according to a strict formula, and will be laid in playgrounds in direct proportion to their proximity to council estates and comprehensive schools. But it does not stop there. The proposal further provides that not a single mine will be laid in playgrounds belonging to estates in  a council tax band higher than F.

This is how statesmen show humanity, not by closing doors, but by opening the window to opportunity.

The opponents of the Safe Playgrounds Initiative, or, to put the matter more bluntly, the proponents of inaction in the face of the plight of our great British shopkeepers, seek to terrify us with spectres of limbs and lives lost, and have even soared to heights of alliterative wizardry to deem the Safe Playgrounds Initiative the ‚charnel house of childhood‘. This pathetically pornographic, petty pusillanimity, Mr Speaker, is synonymous with siding with those who are sullying the sanctity of our stores. They have decided to take up the cause of our enemies. Shame on all of them.

It is time that we all came together and did our bit to make Britain once again safe for shopkeepers, and that, Mr Speaker, is why I urge this House to support the Government’s motion and implement the Safe Playgrounds Initiative.

The Abstainers

(Melody)

If elected, well, you know I’m gonna be,
I’m gonna be the one who’s got no time for you.
As an MP, well, you know I’m gonna be,
I’m gonna be the one whose vote’s too good for you.
If you’re renting, you should know I’m probably,
I’m probably the one who’s getting rent from you.
You voted Labour, and you should know you’re gonna be
You’re gonna be the ones who get completely screwed.

Continue reading →

Maggie Thatcher

(Melody: Joe Hill)

Dreamed I saw Maggie Thatcher here,
Alive as you and me,
Says I, ‚Oh, bugger off, you’re dead‘
Says she, ‚That’s news to me.‘ (bis)

‚Your death brought joy around the world,
Your grave’s a public loo…‘
‚And yet in this election, there’s
Not one of me, but two (bis)

‚When Ed and Dave make welfare cuts,
It’s called „austerity“,
‚cos none of them wants you to know
They’re plagiarising me. (bis)

When even Labour want to make
Scab jobs compulsory,
It’s clear to me that something’s died,
And I know it’s not me.‘ (bis)

There’s no alternative, I said,
Indeed, how could there be,
When no matter how you vote,
You’re re-electing me? (bis)

Till City spivs have fled the land,
And the aristocracy
Have all been laid down at my side,
You’ll ne’er be rid of me.‘ (bis)

The White Flag

The Labour flag is brightest white,

it’s raised without the slightest fight.
It says ‚We’ll beat the Tories yet
at scrapping all your benefits.‘

(CHORUS): So wave the white flag without shame,
for we’re Tories in all but name.
See traitors sneer and cowards wince,
at this year’s Labour conference.

In their graves, Merthyr martyrs turn
so fast that half the Rhondda burns.
Tho‘ plebs may rise and make a fuss,
that lot are nowt to do with us.

(Chorus)

In Tottenham we’ll ne’er be seen
till gentrifiers wipe it clean.
The Scottish worker we’ll ignore
(those jocks are such a ruddy bore)

(chorus)

It waved above the PFI
when the NHS was left to die.
It draped the coffin of BR
and welcomes fracking near and far.

(chorus)

It well recalls betrayals past
and brings the hope of profits fast.
The flag of fright, a symbol plain
of endless, unremitting pain.

(chorus)

It suits today the sycophant
who only stands for parliament
to fill with drink the rich man’s cup
and raise our party banner up

(chorus)

We’ll fully claim ev’ry expense
whilst others work for zero pence.
They’ve only got themselves to blame,
for morals are a muppet’s game.

So wave the white flag without shame,
and soon they’ll call you Sir and Dame.
And should a whistleblower talk,
you needn’t ever fear the dock.

Don’t They Know It’s Bollocks

DON’T THEY KNOW IT’S BOLLOCKS

(To the tune of ‚Don’t They Know It’s Christmas‘)

It’s Christmas time – just don’t turn on your TV.
At Christmas time, the shite they show’s no good for you or me.

If you just avoid the telly you can spread a smile of joy,
That’s how you keep your supper down at Christmas time.

But say a prayer, pray for the other ones
Stuck home watching Geldof and just yearning for a gun.

There are rich folks on the telly
wanting you to know they care,

come to beg you for your money,
so they can hold on to theirs.

And the Christmas songs they sing there are pure bourgeois wankery

So tonight thank god you’ve got a DVD.

And there won’t be snow in Africa this Christmas time
(because most places there it’s summer, you gobshite)

Where nothing ever grows,
(‚cept the cash crops we all know).

Did you lot even research this at all?

Here’s to you
By now you must want a drink.

Every yuletide they’re here to pimp the poor,
in Africa – the poverty here they ignore.

Here’s to them,
With their exiled bank accounts.

Every year it’s the same old act –
Why don’t these bastards just pay their tax?

Don’t they know it’s bollocks, after all?

Labour Conference in An Alternate Universe

A sombre mood descended over Manchester today in the shadow of this year’s Labour Party conference. Faded reddish hoardings, apparently pre-distressed, adorned the area around the conference site of Manchester Central bearing the Labour Party emblem and the laconic message: SORRY. Continue reading →

Conspiro Rap

To the tune of Gangsta Paradise by Coolio

As I look through the forums that I troll on the net
I take a look at my likes and realize there’s nothin‘ left
Cause I’ve been crapping on about the Rothschilds so long,
that even Scott Rickard thinks that my mind is gone.
But I ain’t never spread propaganda that didn’t deserve it
A few Rothschilds, couple reptiles, ‚End the Fed‘, and it’s perfect!
You better watch how you’re talking and where you’re walking
or it might be your wall that I choose to stalk.
Got a hundred different socks to keep you in your place
and each one likes my comments a lot – just in case, fool
Cause I’m the CT with the super-short shelf-life,
My punctuation’s the ellipsis, my words are randomly capitalised.

Refrain:
I sell outrageous lies, in my racist wanker’s paradise
No bullshit story’s too contrived, in my racist wanker’s paradise,
Only the strong of gut survive, in my racist wanker’s paradise
My socks eat my critics alive, in my racist wanker’s paradise

You know this shit’s my life, I’ve got it in my bones:
I pledged my heart to David Icke and my soul to Alex Jones.
So every day I just do my very best,
to represent the NS and the WS.
You lot reckon I’m a fool, but I’ve a mission on my mind:
infiltrate, dominate, or at least waste your time.
I’m in deep with the fash, and I’m the last to know it,
‚Cos my thinking is brown, and my comments show it, fool:
If you piss me off, or if I’m just pissed,
your name goes on my list of Secret Zionists.
Am I a sock or is my surname really Afterglo?
Ha, ha, ha, wouldn’t you like to know?

Refrain

Power and the money, money and the power
Naughty little lizards dropped the Twin Towers.
I’m sellin‘ and I’m sellin‘, but half of them ain’t buyin‘
when I link to Makow, Duke or the Protocols of Zion.
They’re arguing with me, but I’m not here to listen,
A debate with me’s just a gale-force wind to piss in.
I guess they can’t; I guess they won’t
I guess I’m blocked; so now they’re gonna feel the wrath of twenty socks, fool!

Refrain