Trump of the month

STEVE GRIFFITHS POET

POEM OF THE MONTH

see below for President Trump's Deal

 

 

 

The times they are a-changin'

 

adapted by Steve Griffiths from Bob Dylan's great original

 

Come Telegraph, Times and the Sun and the Mail,

And admit that your tricks kill the kind and the frail.

The lies that you've laid would make the devil turn pale:

It's a twisted road you've been rangin'.

But you'd better start believin' that we're on your tail,

For the times they are a changin'.

 

Come you Tories by nature, asset-strippers and crooks,

There is loot in your lockers, there are lies in your looks.

You call fillin' your pockets, balancin' the books -

Your pretensions give reason for cringin'.

We can see that you're sighin' to sink in your hooks,

But the times they are a changin'.

 

When the billionaire demagogues drain our brains to a sump,

The young freeze on the hill, and the old at the dump,

And your destiny calls for a straight-talking Trump -

But his talkin's all gropin' and lungin':

Your fantasy dictator will fall down with a bump,

For the times they are a changin'.

 

If you're taught not to love and you're taught not to hear,

Your victories will be hollow, your smile just a sneer.

If your history's hidden, you'll never see clear

When the people you've stuffed all start singin'.

You'd better look again at the things you hold dear,

For the times they are a changin'.

 

Brexit means Brexit, and a fool means a fool.

If you're gonna jump in, check there's water in the pool,

And insulting your customers is not very cool,

It's a cock-eyed war you've been wagin'.

So you'd better sell the sofa, and find an old wooden stool,

For the times they are a-changin'.

 

They closed the maternity services one night -

So the mothers of Ludlow got very uptight.

They saw dangerous deeds need to be done out of sight,

Stash the privatised loot in tax havens.

But we've come out to fight for our kids and what's right,

For the times they are a-changin'. ​

 

 

President Trump's Deal

​My Dad played hardball, everywhere we went.

​My balls were gilded by the suckers paying rent.

​My destiny was manifest:

​To fill the landscapes emptied out of those we dispossessed

​You offered me your tired, your poor,

Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,

And opportunity - to use my father's real estate to garner power,

Tell lies, bully and molest, mortgage

Repeatedly, and speak out in my confident rough way

The disheartened seem to have a weakness for,

Offer them my bullshit blag of courage,

Bluster, wink and grope like any guy.

I offered them a wall of hope: they jumped at it,

And then with damp-eyed sentiment and calculation -

Since all who are not us are mostly shit -

Together we proclaim a greater nation.

What can I do? You shake your many heads indulgently

And put your fragile faith and trust in me.

And if you get ripped off – that's education.

 

 

© Steve Griffiths 2016

 

 

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