Permanent. ( Way off the Beaten Tracks )

He lived out here at the end of the line.
He had no need ever for a fence,
this land was always so bleak,
and nobody ever comes here now.
nor rarely ever did they choose
to venture way out this far.
There was nothing here...

No welcome sign on this soil.
Nothing except the old buffers.
Next to an old collapsed pig pen.
The corrugated iron lay now dying,
stewed in this gravel and dirt,
like a piece of old wet cardboard,
and bottomless white enamel buckets
laying yesterdays rain to waste.

Piles of old sheared bent bolts
with heads caked in orange rust flakes,
lay hiding from the sun in between
the dead roots of the broken down
mould of a sodden chopping stump.
Rotting sleepers strewn all around.

All kinds of shattered glass shards
broken crockery, paper thin remnants
of tattered old tins and shoe leather.
All manner of slowly crusting metals
lived here, nestling in clumps, 
there amongst these starving nettles,
and there amidst brambles so thick
and twisted as to be able to bring
even a shire horse to it's knees...

Old iron core concrete poles
both split red and cracked straight
through the centre of those
dead white curling lichen rounds.
One post here, one post there...
fallen markers to where his long johns
were once hung out to dry in the breeze.

Cold empty eye heads, staring out
from clumps of shattered leaf springs,
melting beneath the peeling wreckage
of that old elm and tin clad wagon
that he'd once called a home...
They said he'd had a dog or two
and used to set them on anyone.

They said he lived on rabbit and hare,
and maybe the odd pigeon too.
People had long strayed away from him,
and most stayed well away from here.
Nobody's really been ever down here,
No-one at all, or not for a long long time.
The end of this line's now long gone.
The line that he had helped to tear up...

...and although all those railmen had
moved on too, to tear away at another line,
he had chosen to stay on in this desolate place.
They say that he had fought in the war...
But nobody knew from where or how
he had come to be here in this place...

Some say that he was a great hero,
who had come home to nothing
but bomb sites and lonely memories.
But nobody really knows, just rumours. 
They say that in the still cold dead of night
that he used to come round and go through
all the rubbish bins on the edge of town...

Some say they saw him in the woods...
But nobody ever really saw him too well,
and to the towns people, he just lived way out,
over there, somewhere beyond the distant hills,
and the children were told he was the bogey man.

But those who did see him close, say that his eyes
were soft and distant, a thousand miles away.
They said he never talked, just mumbled,
and wore a silver locket around his neck,
a wedding band upon his middle finger.
They say they saw him less and less
as time went on, and that sooner or later,
he was gone, some say that he just moved on.

Strung out in trousers and hobnail boots...
But maybe he just chose to lie down
on his own again, one cold and lonely night.
He'd be so much older now... Maybe he's
still sleeping one eye open, one eye shut,
somewhere near, but still nobody has 
come down here... not for a long long time.
Maybe they really should have taken the time.






copyright R2$ December 16th 200

R2$ destroyed 100's of artworks in 2003 - the 'pre-destroyed' artwork file in pics on this site contains some examples of what remains - myspace robot forced vieled threat and removal of many of these due to them having representaions of cocks in them - cocks are natural - especially when associated with political imagery - myspace image robot sucks cock... some of the images have been censored to allow inclusion in pics here without this site being deleted by the f'kwit myspace robots...

Some examples of art that still exists that was created pre-2003 are here - more in the 'pre-2003 destroyed pics file' - many can not be uploaded here as previously stated due to the thick arse myspace robots not being able to tell the difference between art and pornography... twats !

R2$ was also part of an international art group during the 1980's called  the 'Baule 8'  - this group exhibited both UK and abroad - inc Bank of Ireland, Dublin & Kulturhaus Randers, Copenhagen

Quirkout [see top friends here] was also part of this group as were other artists from both UK and Denmark - etc

Mandy Pandy's Coming to Play ~ 'oompah' audio text ~ may upload but currently running at around 50MB so may segment/serialise in pretty much the same way as 'Count Drac's Love Letter to Kylie" pts. 1 to 8

[current update of recal. version of Apr 13 09 edit also includes 'This Lady's Not For Burning' ~ this text part of other inter-related works related to groupings  "Aktion Man With Gripping Hands" & "Fiscal Dynamo"]

 
Miss-adventures of Mandy Pandy
          and the Iron Lady.

 
Are you sitting comfortably, 
settle down and I’ll begin...
 
Whatever happened to it all, 
all that dope and glory...
Whatever happened 
to the pally rally 
double crossing jackanory
Tory-time picnic table 
spread, fables once said 

to emanate out from the behind
 the walls of the blind Ally Pally storytime
And the Fleet Street bleat 
of  that good old 
“On yer bike...” paradigm
With all star caste-off’s, 
all singing and winging it off 
right round the U- bend,
all freshly hewn striated 
from the state of the crock 
of the living end
of a highly esteemed 
and freshly laid 
turd reich pantomime.
 
In thanks for the memories 
of Ol’ Sugar Plumb’s toothless gums
Weasels who’ve loved, 
still beating it out, 
on her old tin drums
Crumbling and mumbling, 
still plumbing her
 new depth charge behind you...
Behind you... 
She’s behind you... 

There there... 
Now, settle down children,
what are you like...
 
Now then children, 
best to all knock on wood... 
everybody after me
1,2,3...
you never ever had it so good, 

And now that the all lying cry
of cock a doodle do is over, 
we’re told it’s all time to roll-over
because a fresh new cock  
has come to town
having sent off his protoge 
to church in an old dressing gown
he’s now home to roost, 
finger lickin’ chicken 
in his basket case,
to kiss off new babies 
with his perfect hair 
and his smiling face...
 
but well hear more about him 
later in all his glorious company
 
Now... 
Everybody after me - 1,2,3,
How now clown cow, 
where are you now...
That all bunce is now trunced
that once followed your Hurd’s 
pitched black and acrid 
holier than thou
strap-on scrap iron 
ladened words, 
all our raw little bone’s 
picked clean,
‘neath carrioned caw, 
and what on earth 
was it all about,
what on earth 
was it really all for...
 
But will of the asp, 
from the acid tongue 
of a back-handed bung
And all gaily sped up the ladder, 
sung out the song, wrung by wrung
That wanted build up 
some kind of new 
Jerusalemic vinegars 
on a plate
But only suceeded 
in creating a lowly
island  ratty race
from this once green 
and sceptred 
regional sink estate
 
1, 2, 3, everyboy after me... 
There’s no sunshine . . .  ‘till she’s gone . . .

Well done in children... 
and so moving  on, 
unveiled as impurest illegitimacy
All mists of her nasty fiscaline fads, 
as if by magic fade 
now spout tragic and glib
All you-turned back  
into the cul-de-sac 
of her consituent 
lickle~ickle dribble bibs
in city silk incontinance pads, 
all with no such rhyme or reason,

and look now children, 
there’s a hole in the muck -bucket 
dear Liza, dear Liza
from an organised 
rampugnacious asset 
strip~tease of treason...
 
Dear Liza’s poor old mate’s, 
now in a terribly occidental state
Mealy bugs on the plate now hop, 
to jump and skip across the appetiser...
 
‘cos the boat’s all scuppered, 
lust in bloom and bust rusts 
through with oily gravy
romping around 
in her tattered sailor suits, 
her down to the ground
in black or navy
and now that the sun 
is setting, and so lo... 
the 11 year itch 
of her meal was too rich
will she now please hurry, 
take that one final bow, 
in this her last season of the bitch,
 
o’er her the henious crime 
of stretching it out 
in her finale sub-prime 
pantomomime

So Mercurial and asinine 
just a robot on offer-with her head 
‘pon a Trident tine.
 
And If she wants, 
we could help 
with blunt instruments,
come along now darling, 
your place or mine, 
anything rusty’d be just fine
Lets all look into the bottomless 
void of her toy box
Where we’re sure to find 
more than a just few...
And who after all, 
won’t join in with the fun
at the end, of her 
ever growing dole queue,
and all help to cast off 
her final polling card, 
down on Sunset Boulevard

Yes she’d look pretty groovy, 
in the starring role 
of her own  
snuff movie...
 
And well, off course.. 

One of her favourite 
television shows
t’was often heard said, 
was ‘The Onedin Line’...
and “Yes... Prime Minister”...  
yes prime minister...
Buddy, can you spare a paradigm...

yet maybe there’s 
something a little a more sinister
on offer from within 
her lead-lined coffers,
all lurking in the shadows 
awaiting us still
‘cos the rancid half-life 
of all her failure’s, 
are all so long and twisted ...
that a hundred more generations, 
will most surely be footing the bill...
 
As now there’s no more sublime 
a time now to be had 
by all those little shits
Who arose to serve 
upon us all, true grit 
with bent writs
that filled their pockets 
and closed all the pits, 
through to warrentless pacts,
twisted facts 
and of course, 
her merry month 
of  may Poll Tax...

Yes, I’m alright Jack’s 
trousered futures 
counting cash,
She rode roughshod 
across us all 
through guidelines lax
 
And modelled herself 
upon Mother Theresa, 
with her well positioned l
oaded dice,
all throne down, a  hither and tither, 
to scurry across 
the country like lice
and on towards 
her femme fetale crash 
we were all flung 
headlong in a trice,
but it was not before long 
that she rallied to bash, 
maim, slash and slice
with her new song 
“we’re... all in it together” 
and that now we'd all have 
to pay the price,
but her price of course, 
to all accord, further instigating 
another monumental fraud
for her crusading wiles 
both at home and abroad, 
their foundations all built
on the silt where once stood, 
the monopoly and mergers 
commision board
 
like the hag in front 
of the guillotine, 
knitting us all a nice 
new pair of socks
how she laughed 
as she steered us all 
off course, directly into 
the oncoming rocks, 

with all her lackies 
around her pining, 
but yet somehow all, 
still shining their cocks
all but them could hear 
the sirens call, and all of us 
staring... awaiting the fall
 
 
At all Times consulting 
her Sun dial and nail-foddered 
Daily Mirror ‘pon the wall,
Drinking deep from the cup 
of Maxwell house, Mirror, 
Mirror unfairest of them all...
She stood there to lance 
that one final boil, so tight 
and oozing with North sea oil
 
 
And we all got stitched up 
by her crochet Christmas cards 
of Pinochet...
Do you remember children, 
at the Nativity play, how she took the piss
All dressed up to nines as Santa 
to give him a big wet sloppy kiss,
with him as Rudolf Hess 
pulling Satans sleigh, 
on the road to Mandalay...
 
Whilst we were left trapped 
in the pits of her crapper,
as her pendulum swung 
it’s unholy dung at us all 
left standing there in the middle,
and all of us now all left here to rot 
without one single pot left 
in which to piddle

Yes with her managing 
of the finances, t’was the female 
equivalent of ol’ Pol Pot
and all that we’ve been left behind 
is just the halitosis of her fiscal prognosis
and her plaques on walls, marking all 
the black spots of the mess we’ve now got
 
But still we shall hear 
not one one single pathetic apology,
not from her, or those blindy 
still following her theology
and though little bo-peep 
may have now lost all her sheep,
still throughout all of her shadows they creep,
 
Funny money and  factory siren 
threw all your mummys 
and all your daddys,
and all your futures, 
all away, 
just for her to be queen, 
for a single day
Sat upon the throne 
inside her drastic plastic portaloo 
‘pon the scrap heap
now marked down 
on all the maps 
as the finest hour 
of her own Waterloo.
 
Then there she was, 
wrapped in silk astride 
to ride atop her favourite chieftan’s tank
Whilst all those filthy journalists 
stood around, all taking turns 
to have a wank

With them and her 
all in collusion, no wonder 
the resultant steaming long striation
of shit and corruption 
across the globe has resulted 
in everybody’s deprivation
 
Orgreave, Raegan, 
Westland,  Stonehenge, 
Trafalgar Square,
her  icey stare, 
dutiful protoge - Tony Blair, a
nd off course the Belgrano
all mixed up in her couldron 
with golden braids 
of twisted spaghetti
for all her puppet 
African leaders 
all nicely seasoned 
with oregano...

into the cannibal pot we go 
and although she’s retreated 
now back into
her own little world,
the naughty girl has still left 
us all to pack away the wreckage
somehow neatly back, 
into her now broken box 
of bent and twisted rusty meccano
 
Now settle down now children...

I’m sure we really shouldn’t 
wish it all all upon on her..
but in the whole wide world 
when done’s done and all is said, 
There’ll surely still be no-one 
quite as happy as me...
Once I’ve heard that the cow, 
has dropped down dead.
 
But at least she’s past it now, 
it’s just her legacy 
that’s a constant worry
and her cockroach diciples, 
who’ll come out crawling 
out from within her slurry

as though somewhat fashionable 
right now it seems for ex-compatriots 
to kick her,
her thirsty devotee’s 
are already lineing up to crack 
open the shrine
And the jump in her grave 
to sup up all her tasty liquor...
 
But her fatuous cats, 
who all played at the fiddle,
as they slimed us all up 
with her  fancy licks
are still hiding crooked aces 
up their snotty pinstripe shirt sleeves
for the next one horse- race off, 
of all her marked card tricks.
 
Rolling in it they were, 
political muck moved 
the profits around by the truck
what on earth were we to do, 
all but flys on her wall, 

stuck to her flypapers like glue 
by yet more magic bullets

of syphilytic political rhetoric, 
arsenic and old lace
and all so very chaste 
amidst the same cabbage patch 
and thrashed with same stick,
beneath the fly pasts 
of her golden reign, 
her passing shots 
against all insurrection
jerked off her call, 
bugs one and all, 
now under her spy-glass 
foreclosing inspection
time’s tripe past this basket case 
a round congruation 
for one last and final cash injection
 
to cure all our worries 
and worldly woes 
on her three legged 
donkey scroaty ride
the empress' shrewdly 
closed us in with no escape 
to rape us all, from the inside,
with her half eaten carrot 
she’s garroted us all, right 
in front of our own bloodied nose
all wrapped up tightly spic and span 
from the wizzened lips 
of her fiscal dynamos
 
All this and more spat 
succinctly at dread certain ratio
from within her tight lipped 
Adam Smith fields of  fellatio
his favourite merry whore, 
and by the time that we'd all realised
That her hobby horse had bolted, 
it was already far too late
to nail a condemned sign 
upon that particular barn door

And that or so they thought, 
was that, all bought about 
to keep us in our place,
and on our toes... 
Still eighteen years 
and the fiend without a face
has still not gone, 
and so on 
and round 
and round 
and round 
it goes
 
the sacred crusts 
of her thrusting loins 
have clipped away 
at the edges of all our coins, 

and although she kindly stuck 
an IOU inside the money box,
somehow through her 
and all her pals 
she’s still managed 
to give it the frightful pox

and by putting all her own piggies 
into the piggy bank
she thought she and they 
might get away with it better
but somehow they forgot 
they’d already all spent a penny in it 

by forgotting to leave us 
our thankyou letter...

All of them were merrily chirping away 
at each of the Griffin’s outspread wings
All pulling together... all singing... 
away in a mange...  of tommyrot,
unto the acheivments of the Iron Lady 
as their very favourite robot,
in echo all, going for a song...

Yes children... 
Her yellow brick road is long
especially when listening 
to the silly things 
that the siren of Grantam sings...
 
Indefategably fatted boss hogs 
still stand there one and all,
head-first down in every trough 
all whiffy and chirpy, 
sniffing and slurping,
snorting and  burping 
a way to more grub 
as they greedily scoff

And jostle about on 
anything else they can 
snuffle up, or grab for free
And a few hullabaloos 
to send just a few 
of those unfavoured 
little runting  piglets
off with their pay-offs 
in duplicitly down 
into the martyry 
of a failed economy
 
All went in for a penny a
nd walked out with a pound,
Someone somewhere 
really should have put their foot down,

Someone somewhere 
really should have been more strict
As never...in the field of fiscal conflict
has so much been owed by so few... 
to so many..
licking their lips, 
they’ve raked in all the chips,
thirstily ensuring that you won’t get any...
 
Now through cheesy appeasings 
of quantative easing,
Minted bints of the quince 
melimelum milleniam....
the chosen few do hops,  
skips and whoops
leaving us jumping 
under their hedge’s for fun,
run rabbit run, 
we’re still jumping their hoops.
 
creeping and crawling 
upon all fours
they’ll suck out all eggs 
in our chicken coops

Laughing from the castle keep, 
through deep moats and portcullis
To lock us all out 
of the next induction loop...
how much longer in all abeyance 
should we continue to stoop...
 
And as if we didn’t even see it coming... 
Yes, we all did the conga
But now no longer... 
now we all play at limbo.
So come on now children, 
1,2,3... 
arses up and legs akimbo,
 
'cos it’s still all our fault 
and ours alone,
because we kept on gnawing 
away at their bone
as the ugly sister’s wrecking ball 
kept rubbing off Peter 
to pay back Paul...
She stitched us all up 
just like a kipper, then f’ked off 
with the golden slipper
 
In black and white 
it’s surely there,
look in the small print, 
have you read it...
They’ve spunked up 
all our filthy lucre,
and then dumped us all 
with the toxic credit.
 
But now, pulling away 
at the same old strings 
of that same old puppet master
patching up our gored out guts 
with fetid strips of pounde shoppe 
sticking plaster
The grocer’s precious baby’s 
gone down the plug’ole 
with the bath water
So dutily it’s off we go, 
now hop along, 
like little lambkins  
to the slaughter
 
Settle down now children...

Even though we’re already right 
up to our necks in Brown,
and there’s naff all else now 
left that we can we do...
we can still  all still hear 
and  smell the wreak 
from the parroting beak
of that nasty ol' Maggie’s 
gobspeak tweak on through,
and that surely it’s all been 
just one great big huffy huff,
just more of the same 
of that usual stuff,  
all brazenly appraising 
unto the raising
of yet more halyards 
to the din of the Hansard’s roar
all hands on deck, 
fighting over the the cookie jar
spouting what we need now 
is a really good war...

with three line whips 
ripping throughout the riptide
to keep at bay the big bad wolf 
now crouching outside the door
behind which all those piggies 
are now hiding inside  .... 



Yes, that’s right children, 
they really have all 
been very naughty indeed...
All stuffing their pockets 
with filthy lucre 
as on us all of a frenzy they feed
blind faith leads the blind 
in their spent out concepts,
who’s rotting 
foundation piles 
rest upon greed
 
Yes...
 they’re still all singing 
ye same olde infernal hymnal
caterwauling away 
with the usual plea...
though  Tony the Tiger’s 
now a little bit gruff
he’ll still sing along  
“Tomorrow belongs to me...”
dressed only in his luscious 
new robes, and his aura 
of poped and pious humility.
 
As he drifts along 
thro’ to Avalon 
and off into the sunset 
‘pon his good vibrations
The yacht ...bought for him 
with cash creamed off 
from you and me 
and this nation’s
Miserable downward 
spiralling plight, 
nose first into his pile of shite
of new labour’s version 
of ye Thatcherite rights
But never mind children... 
It’ll all be alright on the night...
Yes, 
that’s right now children 
isn’t it...
because we all know 
that from the very start
each and every morning cloud's,  
bright silver lining's all lined with shit
 
Tony the Tiger has got it made, 
so let’s follow along 
in his merry parade
because just one good deed, 
shall surely right 
one hundred 
thousand 
trillion 
wrongs...
and meandering 
throughout the gerrymandering mires,
we thrill to new squeals that set sail 
to impail us all upon new pyres
set to swat out all 
but our bestest swansongs ~ 
‘neath angelic lyres
 
and in the vile bile 
of a new and truly unruly 
Tannoyed style,
we’ll all learn soon enough, 
yes... 
we’ll all know the score...
After me now... 
all together now children...  
1,2,3,4...  
Feed the rich... 
and kill the poor...
 
Maybe it’s now time 
to bury your passport,
Somewhere all safe 
down beside the sea...
Everybody altogether now... 
in all renewance to a new cow tow
Here comes Mandy Pandy... 
to show us all how...
 
# [libel deleted] #
 
Oh no children... 
look out, here he comes...
His gain is your loss...  
[and like he even gives a toss...]
He still dreams that when they pull 
him out from the wreckage,
all nicely spammed up 
in his shiny shiny happy 
Hugo Boss...
 
Watch out children... 
Watch out...
Watch out... 
there’s a Humphrey about 
He’s been humming away all day,
And if you all ssssh... 
you can hear him shout
 
“Arbeit Macht Frei !” ~ 
“I’m Mandy ... Fly me...”
 
Yes... so here it all is again,
 just as before you see...
 
His dreamy area, 
is the scary scenario 
of the political lethario
Who’s just been waiting 
in the wings as an understudy
With all rolled up red axe ministers 
under his arm
just in case 
he should get his new 
jackboots all muddy
 
He’s surely already 
got it all planned you know...

Where to buy a wreath 
with just enough  space
for  a couple of Lugers 
to be stuffed underneath...
and his dreams of a snazzy 
little square stick-on tash,
Maybe not quite as wide, 
but still a just little bit like 
that of Omar Sharif... 
 
...and they all said 
it really couldn’t happen here,
but if the shit hits the fan, 
I’ll wager just a year...
before he’s the new high-noon 
hombre smoking cheroots,
cold flashing eyes, 
cuban heeled jack boots
 
but ‘til then these are all 
but his own wet dreams,
for all his pain, and all his schemes, 
for now he shall remain,
just another sad wannabee 
Old Spice bedwetter...
waving ‘pon high 
from his imaginary cavalcade
whilst passing out lollies 
and lemonade
to the children of parents 
who should really know better
 
but he could have  his eye 
on the loot for quicker route
as a little bird told me, 
that he’d much more prefer
to be splashin’ it all over 
with the great smell of Brut
just as soon as he can 
amass enough loot
 
But anyway children, 
don’t worry,
he’s in no hurry 
and though sure to be there...
To recieve his man sized peck 
upon the cheek 
from 
“My Cherie Amour” 
and  Tony Blair...
 
With a crocodile tear 
in one glass his eye, 
a pukka pie,
and immaculate hair, 
a rocket in his pocket 
and a ten-thousand yard stare...
He’s sure get wood, 
whilst he squeezes inbetwixt 
the great and the good,
 
And so on, his dreams 
of rattling on and on...
of “this tragic loss 
of the greatest politician 
of our modern time...”
Whilst syrupticiously 
shuffling his feet about
To fill up the hole quick, 
with more dirt and quicklime...
 
Then with his rocket 
now positively bursting 
out of the silk of his lined pocket
and making him stumble 
all a dither just like ‘Jake the Pake’
Off he’ll  pop, limousine supreme, 
onwards and upwards towards the wake
Whilst his henchmen dish 
out some lovely quick-set 
concrete wellies
to the rest 
of the mourners 
lined up by the lake...
 
Politics you see dear children ,
is always a funny kind 
of waiting game...
And for Mandy Pandy 
of course,
it’s always payed, 
to keep one’s self
ever so slightly 
out of the frame...
and only when 
all the dirty deed’s 
are done,
is it safe [ be bo... ] 
to pop up one’s head,
So ‘till then he’ll blithely 
dream away,
with slithering thoughts 
of  that very special day,
when all of his opponants, 
are certified dead.
 
Such as his 2012 
Olympics dream scheme... 
“I’m Mandy... Fly Me...”
just as he thought 
it should have been 
way back in 1933...
And in this special dream, 
all Tannoy’s wired 
to his microphone of doom...
...shall boom beneath 
his newest real deal 
marching tune,
as he dreams 
a way to Mendelson 
and the hope that we 
won’t find him out...
as adoringly we wave 
at him from the stalls, 
when will hear him shout
“Arbeit Macht Frei ! 
Tomorrow belongs to 
m’mime Mandy.. Fly Me...”
 
Yes dreaming away, 
he’s up there in his flaming 
Onyerbeikstaag royal box
“Mandy Pandy’s coming to play...” 
but quite yet now children is he...
so settle down now, because 
now it’s time again, to turn 
back all the clocks...
 
So all together 
after me, 1,2,3,..
...
Hands off cocks 
and on with socks...

Mandy Pandy... 
Arbeit Macht Frei
We’ll end again 
with Goldilocks...
 
Yes children, I know 
you like that one...

It’s after all, probably best 
to leave poor old Mandy Pandy 
dreaming now...

That’s right, 
leave poor old Mandy’s 
dreaming and scheming of all this,
his most special and magic day... 
Where everything’s gone shite and grey
And move on back swiftly 
to the here and to the now...
To a place where the pages 
of history are soon once 
again start turning...
It’s time for him 
and all his pals 
to stop milking the udders 
of the golden cow
Whilst we get back 
to the fact that...
This Lady’s not for Burning, 
is she now...
 
Yes... That’s right children... 
This Lady’s not for burning
 
Hear... There’ll be no emotional anthem

for the devil daughter of Grantham
No solace revering her golden feats...

Just whoops of joy, and parties in the streets

This Lady’s not for Burning...
 
Through her phastasms 
of Adam Smith imaginations induction
To John Bull, she’s sowed all seeds 
of our nations destruction
All carefully orchestrated 
under her own instruction
Where all roads led to nowhere 
beneath her hawkeyed deconstruction

This Lady’s not for Burning
 
Be still again those dunce hats 
of her vision rise like steeples
How is it that so many now forget 
just how it was
She and her devotees 
asset stripped the futures 
of our children
And the future from all 
the British peoples
 
This Lady’s not for Burning... 
May no state funeral calvalcade 
be ever made
To drive her  through the streets 
toward her mausoleum
Best she be pickled 
in jars of formaldehyde
And as warning 
be there left beside 
all other horrors
To be displayed 
on the bleakest shelves 
of the Black Museum.
 
This Lady’s not for Burning... 

No beatification 
or hallowed sarcophagus
for the liaress... Nor to ley 
through state her gaseous foul inteststate
'pon this nation...
No schmoozing coffin lickers... 
No twenty one gun salute elation,
Render the sow... 
hogwash to fertiliser... 
too good for cremation.
 
This Lady’s most ceratinly not for burning...

Even the local priest is gurning, 
and all the dead be they Whig~ling Tory...
Liberal do gooders or, die hard Labour, 
all pushing up the daises to a greater glory, 

certainly don’t want that cow 
for a permanent neighbour...
Yes even now in their graves, 
the dead in her local churchyard are turning...
The worms they flee, as on broken urns 
even the mole sare committing hari kari



This Lady is not for Burning...
 
But what’s that over there?.. 
what's that we hear and see?...

Oh no he’s back !... 
And he’s on the attack...
Quickly run away 
and hide children, 
flee now, flee...
Fruit of the loin 
of the loin of Adolf and Unity 

the black cap judge of L.D.V.

“Arbeit Macht Frei !”

~ 
“I’m Mandy . . . . . .    Fly me...”

This Lady’s not for Burning

Hear... There’ll be no emotional anthem
For the devil daughter of Grantham
No solace revering her golden feats
Just whoops of joy, parties in the streets

This Lady’s not for Burning

Through your phastasms of Adam Smith imaginations induction
To John Bull, you sowed all seeds of our nations destruction
All carefully orchestrated under your own instruction
Where all roads lead to nowhere beneath your deconstruction

This Lady’s not for Burning

Again those dunce hats of your vision rise like steeples
How can so many now forget just how it was
You asset stripped the futures of our children
And the future of all the British peoples

This Lady’s not for Burning

May no state funeral calvalcade be made
To drive you through the streets your mausoleum
Best you be pickled in jars of formaldehyde
And as warning be there left beside all other horrors
To be displayed on the blackest shelves of the Black Museum.

This Lady’s not for Burning

This Lady’s not for Burning

No beatification or hallowed sarcophagus for the liaress
Nor to ley through state her gaseous foul inteststate 'pon this nation
No schmoozing coffin lickers, no twenty one gun salute elation,
Render the sow,.. hogwash to fertiliser,.. too good for cremation

This Lady is not for Burning



an old poem from time back

etcetera and so on...