Rudolph: A Satire on the Bedroom Tax

The Bedroom Tax is an unfair charge, imposed on the poorest and most vulnerable in society by rich, privileged and pig-ignorant politicians.  Politicians they call themselves, but behind that badge they wear another pinned to their hearts: Pirate, Spiv, Parasite.

Here's a little song I wrote to the tune of Rudolph The Red-Nosed Reindeer.  It's Seasonal, satirical and, sadly, not that far from the truth.

Rudolph The Barefaced Scrounger

You know Slasher and Flasher,

And Banker and Fix ‘Em,

Conman and Hedgefund and Politician,

But do you recall

The most heinous reindeer of all?

Rudolph the Barefaced Scrounger

Had a tiny surplus room:

If you lived in a mansion,

The kind of place you’d keep a broom.

All of the other reindeer,

Not on housing benefit,

Read it in the Daily Mail,

And had a self-righteous fit.

Then one foggy Christmas Eve

Santa came to say,

“Rudolph for your extra space,

Pay or find another place”.

Then all the reindeer jeered him,

Waving their stuffed Christmas socks,

“Rudolph the Barefaced Scrounger,

Go live in a cardboard box”.

                                  

                                          (c)Frank Rooney

Tipsy, Dipso and Dead

I'm planning a series if children's books around 3 alcoholics called Tipsy, Dipso and Dead. I'm hoping they'll be picked up by CBeebies.

Tipsy, Dipso & Dead

Off his rocker, out of his head, Said Tipsy to Dipso, ignoring Dead, "I have 2 cans of Special Brew... There's one for me and one for you"

Tipsy's chosen drink is sherry. Dipso sups his cider merry. But Dead won't tell us what his is, He's on the floor and soaks up piss.

Tipsy carries a razor blade. Dipso has a nail in a stick. Nobody will dare try mug Dead, He smells so bad covered in sick.

Tipsy bothers folk for money.
Dipso finds the traffic funny. Dead lies against the Tesco's door, To decompose a little more.

Frank P. Rooney

Summertime (Alt)

It  is  common  knowledge  in  songwriting  circles  that  the  legendary  lyricist  and  librettist,  scribbler  of  the  classic  show  Porgy And Bess,  Ira  Gershwin,  was  a  martyr  to  hayfever.  The  first  draft  of  his  timeless  song  “Summertime”  (printed  here  for  the  first  time)  went  thus:-

Summetime (Alt)

Summertime ...

And  my  nose-holes  are  sneezy.

My  head  is  thumpin’

Cos  the  pollen  count’s  high.

Oh,  my  poor  eyes  itch

And  they’re  really  red  lookin’,

Like  halved  tomatoes

When  they  fry.

But   antihistamines

Won’t  dispense  with  the  symptoms;

With  my  nose-holes  explosive,  snot  will  fly.

Summertime ...

And  my  nose-holes  are  sneezy.

My  head  is  thumpin’

Cos  the  pollen  count’s  high.

Oh,  my  poor  eyes  itch

And  they’re  really  red  lookin’,

Like  halved  tomatoes

When  they  fry.

             (c)Frank Rooney

Multi-Tasking: A Modern Predicament

After I have tapped out a Tweet,

Perching on my porcelain throne,

I lie the bog-roll at my feet,

Wipe my arse with the mobile phone.

(c)Frank Rooney

10 Years After: The Prophets

10 Years After: The Prophets

Thousands of years ago,

in Old Testament times,

after conversing with a burning bush,

a leader of his people

led those people into a land

of Milk and Honey.

Not so very long ago

(in these Old Testament times),

a leader of his people

listened to a brazen Bush,

and led those people

into a land of Fear and Flames.

                                                 (c)Frank Rooney

My Mummy

My Mummy

A Poem for Mothers' Day

I  am  grateful  to  my  Mummy.

She  taught  me  how  to  play  gin  rummy;

She  taught  me  how  to  swear  and  fight:

Feint  with  the  left,  floor  with  the  right.

From  her  I  got  my  taste  for  whisky.

The  doctor  said  it  would  be  risky

To  breastfeed  me  and  to  tipple,

But  I’d  get  drunk  there  at  her  nipple.

I  won’t  hear  a  word  against  my  Maw  --

A  capital  crime  by  my  own  law.

I’ll  hold  your  throat  till  you  turn  blue,

Bite  off  your  ear  and  have  a  chew.

I’ll  pound  your  face,  turn  it  to  mince.

I’ll  have  you  know,  you’ll  more  than  wince.

But,  she  seems  to  miss  the  meaning

Of  what  it  is  that  she  is  screaming,

When  in  anger,  in  a  voice  deep  and  rich,

My  Mummy  calls  me  a  son of a bitch.

                                                                             (c)Frank Rooney

By the way, this is not a poem about my own, real mother, who is the kindest, least selfish person in the world.

Sonnet Youth

Sonnet Youth

Tempestuous  teenager,  hark  ye  this,

Through  your  hedge  of  hair  and  cage  of  piercings

And  attitude  all  vinegar  and  piss:

Time’s  harsh  lessons  smart  like  many  bee stings.

Oh,  so  the  world  fails  to  understand  you,

And  everyone,  all  of  them,  make  you  sick?

In  your  room  strewn  with  soiled  underpants  you

Pop  your  spots  as  walls  tremble  to  music.

Your  puss-filled  bubble-wrap  face  will  grow  smooth,

But  cruel  age  will  etch  a  wretched  road  map

Of  the  way  to  wisdom’s  final  tollbooth,

And  your  new  tunes  are  tomorrow’s  lame  crap.

Don’t  take  offence  if  I  call  you  a  bore,

For  I  was  once  like  you  in  days  of  yore.

                                                                                          (c)Frank Rooney

                                                         

False Consciousness

False Consciousness

(A Marxian Allegory)

I  gave  my  love  a  blood  red  rose.

She  said  she  got  a  lot  of  those

From  lovers  that  she  holds  more  dear.

I’m  not  her  love;  she  made  that  clear.

I  know  that  she  oft  loves  freely

Or  for  a  small  gratuity;

As  I  know  I’ll  love  her  really,

I  can  bear  her  promiscuity.

She’s  not  mean  with  her  affections,

I  just  wish  it  were  my  turn.

She  uses  cream  for  infections --

I’ve  heard  it  said  that  love’s  flames  burn.

                                                                              (c)Frank Rooney

Muhammad Ali At The Genitourinary Clinic

Muhammad Ali At The Genitourinary Clinic

I float like a butterfly and I sting like a bee ...

Got a scrote like a basketball and it stings when I pee.

                                             (c)Frank Rooney

Gravel

Gravel

I  have  grazed  my  knee

on  several  occasions.

However,

My  knee  is  not

a  cow;              

nor  does  my  calf

have  four  (4)

stomachs.

                                 (c)Frank Rooney

Breakfast Song

Breakfast Song

Do not tremble little lamb;

I don’t want you --

I want some ham.

Tremble, pig!

Start to shakin’!

When you’re dead I’ll eat your bacon!

Calm down, hen!

You’re pants -- you’ll soak ‘em.

I don’t want you,

Just your ovum.

                   (c)Frank Rooney