Leaders By Definition

The various electorates voted for these people. Maybe they didn’t understand what they were voting for. In an effort to stop it ever happening again, here are some helpful definitions from www.http://onlineslangdictionary.com/.

Johnson. Noun: a penis. Q. E. D.

Trump. Verb – intransitive: to flatulate; “break wind“. We hold this truth to be self-evident.

Putin. I searched for Putin too, but found nothing. The nearest I could find is poontang, which is a noun for female genitalia. So that’s not right. Or is it?

Xi. Similarly, nothing came up for Xi in www.onlineslangdictionary.com. However, www.urbandictionary.com has this useful insight about Xi: “One of many two and sometimes 3 letter words played at least 5 times a game in Words With Friends by some bastard with the effect of totally bollocksing up the placement of future tiles and sending your opponent into a dick punching rage.” See Trump above.

Bolsonaro. Again, no slang equivalents. However, Google translate says that this name means ‘blessed’ in Portuguese. Given what this bastard has done to the rainforest, to the indigenous tribes and to the general population of that beautiful country, I think this is clearly an error. The antonym has been returned instead of the synonym. The antonym of blessed is cursed. Yes, cursed.

So the next time you have a chance to vote, use it wisely, people. You might not get what you hope for. But, if you don’t try to stop them, you might just get what you deserve.

The Big Game Hunter

It was dress-down Friday.

When Colin walked in, she thought of Donald Trump. He was wearing a beige safari shirt and matching combat trousers. His blond hair had fallen to one side, like that combover that the Donald has. It looked like he was wearing a dead pale beaver on his head.

This made her laugh.

Colin was her boss. He was as far up himself as the actual Donald.

“You look like a big gay munter,” she said.

Colin smiled.

“Thank you,” he said.

The Ballad Of The Disadvantaged

Most people

Are not millionaires

Most people

Are not wealthy

Most people

Live within their means

Most people

Are quite steady

That person

Is a wealthy girl

That person

Has it easy

That person

From a different world

That person

Needs to see me

This person

In this messed up world

This person

On his knees, see

This person

Without means, me

This person

This is just me

I see

All these different worlds

I see

What you don’t see

I see

What you never will

I see

What you will not be

I’ll be

What you never were

I’ll be


I’ll be

Nothing, more or less

I’ll be


I am one

I’m the plural one

I’m the one who is

The many

You are one

But not the only one

You’re the one who is

The enemy

My Home Land

I paced my home today.

Eighteen paces by forty-two.

Such a little plot of land,

Bigger than some, smaller than many,

But this land is my land, as Woody would say.

It’s a mean little plot on a mean little street,

In a city with little meaning these days,

Set in a belittled country.

But even here, in this not-so-purple patch,

I can hide from what is happening

Out there.

I can shut the doors, draw the curtains,

Turn off the t.v. and just read.

Because I can’t bear to think about

Or to hear what they say about

Or see what they do about

The things that I used to hold dear.

It’s a car crash, a grab and smash,

By people who think they know what we need,

When the truth of it is that most of these fools

Don’t even know what we think.

I’ll tell you a truth that they don’t want to hear,

I think we’ll hear much less of them soon.

That X in the box, that big little cross,

It will crucify most of these goons.

The crusty old reds and the too moody blues

Will be yesterday’s men, and they’ve no-one to blame but themselves.

The next wave will be coloured yellow and green,

But it will just start again,

For not one will hold power so it will all fall apart,

And whenever that happens the old farts will return.

Ring no changes.

Ring-a-ring o’roses.

All fall down.

Start again.


The name Bolsonaro, revile it, despise it.

We must find some way to curtail and chastise him.

He must be a bought man, there’s no other reason,

So follow the money, and charge him with treason.

For killing the planet, for frying its lungs

The man must be taking the biggest of bungs.

He’s claiming a freedom, but freedom from what?

Freedom to take from all those who have not.

The Amazon creatures, the amazing tribes,

Whose homes he is burning for some fat, dirty bribes.

When his reign is over one thing is for sure,

He’ll have a new home on the Cote D’Azur.

And back in his homeland, amidst all the ashes

The people should find out just where all his cash is.

They should bring it all back, and bring him along, too,

And then build him a home where the wild birds once flew.

They should settle him down in a place he likes well

So he can watch his own country, as it turns to hell.

Hello, Mister Putin

Hello Mister Putin. 
How the hell are you?
Are happy with your work today?
Are you pleased at what you do?
Have you murdered any democrats
With other people's hands?
Have you slaughtered any innocents
In other people's lands?
It's funny how the world sits back
And lets you do these things.
Oh, but of course, you've paid them off. 
How do you pay off kings?
And while we're here, how do you sleep?
Does guilt not play a part
In any little thing you do
I guess you need a heart.
We see you going walkabout
And there among the proles
Were people who might vote you out,
But you will kill them all.
We see that you have many men
Around you all the time
Caligula had much the same
You share at least some crimes.
How can you not see history?
The book of times gone by
Where will be writ in future years,
'he lied and lied and lied'.
You laugh and say, 'It's my time now,
The strong man makes the truth.'  
That lie was told some years ago
When Hitler was a youth.
It's funny how you scummy men
All fear democracy
The way that drunken Junker does,
Bashar and Kim and Xi.
You put the ballot box on view,
And so the people vote
Exactly how you tell them to,
Although the scars don't show.
It would be really funny if
The voters said just leave
But that will never happen now
Your rule is to deceive.
You've broken it, the way of life
That Athens gave to us
The way where we all had a say
Has gone without a fuss.
What frightens me the most of all
Was told by Eric Blair.
In 1948 he wrote
That tale of present years.
He said that truth becomes the lie
That war becomes the peace
When everything is doublethink
And no-one disagrees.