This volume was inspired by the build up to the Iraqi invasion as the world played "Shall we, shan't we?"
This Weary War
Oh countless days, oh endless wait,
A tortuous time to find our fate.
So tiresome of high command guff.
I truly think we've had enough.
Here I stand in a state of languish
Feeding off the nation's anguish,
Doomed, demoralised and downhearted.
When will this fucking war get started?
Every day I watch the news,
The same old stuff gives me the blues.
Blind inspectors in Iraq
Couldn't find their arse with their hands behind their back.
Why don't they just plant some missiles
Of mass destruction, something fissile?
Anyone would think there's nothing there,
Does nobody really care?
So, come on, gee up, Uncle Sam.
Knock ten bells out of Saddam.
Give us something good to watch,
Give your bedpost one more notch.
Entertain us, as you should.
It's not like this in Hollywood.
This war of words is all too subtle,
Well, at least you lost another shuttle
If I should die, think only this of me,
That there's some corner of a foreign oilfield
That is forever England. There shall be
In that rich sand a more toxic dust concealed,
A dust whom England bore, shaped, made aware,
Gave, once, her flowers to love, her ways to roam,
Then despatched here to fight in poisoned air,
So you all can drive your cars back home
War Is Bad
War is bad
It makes me sad
War is wrong
I sing a song
War is long.
War is come
It is dumb
War is here
War is fear.
War claims lives
More than knives
War is fate
War is hate.
War is senseless
Against the defenseless
War is sick
A dirty trick
Gets on my wick.
War is dying
War is fears
A mother's tears
War takes years.
War is fighting
I am writing
War is not knowing
Where this poem about
War is going.
War is smelly
On my telly
War is showing
War is knowing.
War is war
War is like
On a trike
Poor Mrs Sheikh
her husband is long dead
she finds it hard to get around
with one eye and just one leg
Her children are all beggars
the ones that are still here
the gulf war robbed her of so much
of all that she held dear.
Her leader is a looney,
one eye still tells her that
and by the sounds of the world service
that Bush is quite a prat.
Her neighbours they can't read or write
and no-one has a wireless
which she thinks is just as well
they don't know how so dire it is
Just over that there mountain
in the oceans oh so blue
the US navy lies in wait
to blow them to Timbuktu
Ode On Osama
Far far away, where the weather is waarmer,
And sunbeams shine hot on the back of a famer,
Yet far from the home of the great Dali Lama,
There lives, in a cave, a young man called Osama.
His beard it is thick and incredibly lush,
It hangs from his nose and gets caught in his mush,
And if anyone talks then he has to say "hush!"
Because he is hiding from President Bush.
By day he hangs out with his mates in the cave,
They eat lots of goat, maybe have their own rave,
With a large breasted woman he took for a slave,
Osama is being incredible brave