This isn't a poem though but a little satirical piece I wrote (it is a cod-Dickens-style metaphore on class) inspired by those riots practically on my doorstep in Ealing. Just wanted someone to see it.
(A sort of pantomime: Fill Yer Boots)
Cast of characters
Edward Notamillionaireband a good natured dullard possessed of unrealistic ambitions to head the realm
David Notamillionaireband overthrown by his more stupid brother
Nicholas Cleggconvert deputy beadle who has signed a Faustian pledge
Vincenzo Cabelliari suave diver and dancer bit of an oily “merchant” yet anti-banker
David Cumberbund an obvious toff and actual Old Etonian (former member The Bullingdon Club) but now unostentatious family man and first citizen of the realm the 19th Old Etonian to fill the post
George Osborn Biscuit late of the Bullingdon club, millionaire but mean miserly keeper of the nation's coffers
Boris Johnsonovich old Etonian coincidental ex-member Bullingdon Club, second generation immigrant latterday Dick Whittington wannabe and classicist who looked towards London for fame and fortune attaining eventual mayorship after much pantomime
Ken Livingstill Hardup, rival former mayor of London and High Sheriff of Greater London loser of mayoralcy title to Boris, thoroughly bad loser and newt owner and betimes pissed as one
Uriah Hopeless: a former kickball referee
The late Ronnald Barkis (appearing only as a ghost: the one and only - in the spirit world – K/A “Ronny,” to say his catchphrase : “Barkis is willing.”
David Copafeel a mild grantless student pacifist beaten regularly on all fronts
Our hero Copafeel orates:
"It was the first year of our overlord's coalition. Dark dealings blighted town and country in the bleakest Winter known to memory. It was a dickens of a time and no mistake what with those revolting fellow students of mine beating me up because of my non-confrontational posture on the fee issue. That hurt added to being truncheoned in all my innocence outside Cumberbund's Party fortress where only a rare stroke of luck occasioned my dodging that candlestick hurled down by that buffoon ruffian on the roof, a supposed Marx socialist whatever that may be. I would not be knowing thence lest it is that he is a member of that band of troubadours and strolling players I have heard about the “Marx Brothers,” if I recall. I could not see them of course on my pittance of a stipend, present income as m'friend McCawber says affording only misery being in deficit of outgoings, and it will be no theatre for me for many years whatever expectations I have on future remunerations being eternally hitched in hock to the usury of bankers.
For amusement if for no other purpose I attended today's City Hall gathering of Aldermen at Gherkin House, Mayor Boris was due to speak on the recent violence perpetrated by rampaging anarchists posing as actual industrious students such as I.
“My view inter alia these revolting students,” said Boris, and they are … ahem (coughing) … sina que non - really revolting a bona fide phalanx of oiks and ordure … err … a monster carbuncle on … oh that was said by someone before, well ah, never mind, you see the gist of the bally thing. They are a balista assault of the hordes on the Pax Londinae, the mob versus democracy.”
A Daily Mailevolent reporter then spoke. Isn't it true Mayor that if these young reprobates were to be paid Crown funds they would inevitably squander it on ale and hemp?” “Indubitably sir,” Boris answered, “worthy scribe, and you may quill that quotation prithee in your journal vox populi aqua scutum with no fear of malfeasance , ex gratia mundi or possibly Tuesday et cetera et cetera, at which juncture the Viking haired potentate frothed at the mouth and stopped talking. Deus ex machina.
Uriah Hopeless blows whistle for time, end."