British politics recently had its apple cart overturned when somebody with apparent beliefs in anything other than trousering as much loot as their piggy little arms can scoop up became leader of the opposition Labour Party.
While we should all beware of once more falling for a false prophet that promised so much and yet delivered so little- Russell Brand, organised religion and the Playstation Vita all spring to mind,- I thought I would go out on a limb with Jeremy.
Not a very big limb, it must be said. And not my own.
As I was tiptoing to the very tippy tips of some baby’s arm re Jeremy Corbyn, pausing only to go “one step, two step, tickle them under there” I hit upon my great contribution to his campaign- which is something that might be good or bad, who knows, right?
But if it pays, I’m all ears.
A bit of rhyming is what he needs.
Bez from Happy Mondays recently stood for parliament on the platform “Don’t be crackers – shake yer maracas!”:
Sadly, he lost his deposit along with the contents of his stomach after the five pills he dropped when waiting for the returning officer to deliver the results all kicked in at once.
What a lad. He’s fifty-one.
So, then to Jeremy.
Jeremy, Jeremy, Jeremy.
Je – re – my.
You see the problem, here. Nothing much rhymes with Jeremy. Nothing that makes sense, in any case.
So I hit instead on investigating his surname for rhyming possibilities.
And maybe it was the fact I had drunk twenty cans of San Mig Light by then, but the only thing I could think of to rhyme with ‘Corbyn’ was ‘foreskin’.
Not much of a flag for people to rally around, obviously. And certainly not many of them.
I slept on the problem and today read a helpful American commentator on tickld who suggested that as Americans can’t be bothered to say the ‘g’ in continuous- but I guess they would call them progressive- verbs, then why not fergeddabout the muthafuckin rhymin thin?
As an aside, Brits can’t be bothered to say the ends of words either. A Kiwi acquaintance hearing an English couple order ‘spaghetti bolognese’ in a restaurant in Spain made him piss. Blood.
So I figured, yeh…. let’s go through the alphabet doing a rhymy thingy – this is a technical term poets use- and so find anything that could be remotely used to further the political career of Jeremy Corbyn.
My brief here is to appeal to the young voters- the ones who don’t actually vote but say they definitely will next time for old Jezza,- so I wanted to portray him as ‘larging it’, even if that might be terminally unfashionable again amongst twenty-somethings who think meeting up to drink bottles of fucking mineral water and talk about beard grooming is somehow a thing.
But fuck them.
Forget the hipsters.
Sixteen year-olds are getting bang into pills again. And they’ll be voting for the first time at the next election. Not that they’ll bother to, mind.
So, with no further preamble, here is my Jeremy Corbyn piece of agit prop poetry to big up the yoof vote
Is totes not boring
You won’t find him snoring
At four in the morning
Instead he is touring
Crack dens and whoring
I’m thinking the more libertarian wing of Labour might go with this and am prepared to offer it in exchange for a degree of political influence.
Or any degree at all, to be honest. The one I’ve got is in English and Drama and it’s been completely useless.
I doubt he will make this poem part of his campaign, unfortunately. But he may as well, really, if he wants the youth vote. And then he can just totally ignore whatever promises he made once he actually gets in power, just like every other cunt ever.