I think I worked out the maze of Amazon so I might be putting a book or two in the Kindle shop shortly. I expect I will have to use bad words to make it work.
At the end of the last collection of short stories I included a corrupted classic poem. A variant of Poe's 'The Raven', titled 'The Gorgon' which appeared on the old Livejournal blog and I can't find it right now. (Update - anonymous found it) I have it on disk, I could just put it up again but I have a new one for the new book.
In the interests of balance, this one does not attack Labour at all. Why bother? They're having enough fun attacking each other.
And so, while I complete the jolly tales of dust and rain, here is the result of mixing Lewis Carroll with booze and tobacco and a Coagulation government...
The Cleggy and the Cameroid.
As told, in a coincidence worthy of the status of Miracle, by Tweedledum and Tweedledee.
The kids went on a shopping spree,
Shopping with all their might:
They ran through shops and offices,
Took everything in sight—
And this was odd, because it was
The middle of the night.
Policemen watched them sulkily,
Because they thought they should
Be chasing them and catching them
And pulling off their hoods—
“Our orders are ‘stay put’,” they said.
“We’d catch them if we could!”
The clouds were red as red could be,
The flames burned oh so high.
A dense and acrid cloud of smoke,
Had blotted out the sky,
The antismokers held their breath,
For fear that they would die.
The Cleggy and the Cameroid,
Were sunning, far away.
They couldn’t let such trivia,
Curtail their holiday.
“It’s only Tottenham,”
They said. “Besides, the public pay.”
“If seven busloads full of cops
Came roaring into town
Do you suppose,” the Cleggy said,
“They’d keep the masses down?”
“I hope so,” said the Cameroid,
“Or our whole game is blown.”
“O Voters, come and vote for us!”
The Cleggy called out loud.
“We’re listening to what you say,
Our promises abound:
We swear we’ll keep them all one day,
When that day comes around.”
The older Voters looked at him,
As one, they curled their lip.
They’d heard such talk of hope before,
And fallen, all, for it.
This new talk sounded just the same,
Empty, but full of shit.
But four young Voters pushed ahead,
To see what they could find.
With dreams of smokefree drinkfree world,
(To others, this applied).
Their slender frames belied their plight—
They hadn’t any minds.
Four other suckers followed them,
And yet another four,
The thick and hopeless rushed to vote,
And more, and more, and more—
With voting forms in sweaty palms,
They voted to be poor.
The Cleggy and the Cameroid
Both rubbed their hands in glee.
The Cameroid, excited, lost
A little bit of wee.
“How thick are they?” he blithely asked.
The Cleggy said “Let’s see.”
“The time has come,” the Cleggy said,
“To talk of many things.
Of salt—and fat—and smoking bans,
Death sentences and drinks—
And why the cold is really warmth,
And how you all get thin.”
“But wait a bit,” the Voters cried,
“We didn’t ask for that.
You spoke of freedom, choice, repeal,
You never mentioned fat.”
“We’re listening,” smirked the Cameroid.
“But you can’t deny the ‘facts’.”
“A slice of bread,” the Cleggy said,
“Is all you really need.
Your cars and homes and smokes and booze,
Are terrible indeed.
Now if you’re ready, Voters dear,
It’s time to watch you bleed.”
“They weren’t for us!” the Voters cried,
“Those vicious rules and laws,
The bans and regulations were
There only for the poor.”
“Ah but,” the Cameroid declared,
“You’re middle class no more.”
“The EU runs things now, my dears,
And human rights to boot.
But you don’t count as human so
Police are free to shoot.
And now,” the Cameroid leaned close,
“Hand over all your loot.”
“It seems a shame,” The Cleggy said,
“To take advantage so.
We lied and fabricated but
The idiots weren’t to know.”
The Cameroid stopped counting cash.
He scowled and just said “So?”
“I’d weep for them,” the Cleggy said,
“If I could sympathize,
But fortunately all that tax
Will help to dry my eyes.
In fact, I think a new one’s due.
How about a tax on pies?”
“O Voters,” said the Cameroid,
“This Parliament is fun.
It’s nearly time to vote again.
Where are you, everyone?”
They’d gone because they’d realised,
They’d been shafted, every one.
It's an early draft. If I find better lines it will change.