Saturday, 24 December 2011

The Rioter's Tale

Whanne that the hotte sonne
Hath in the Lyon halfe his course yronne
Than longen meny folke to go on riotage
These folke, of which i tell yow my tale
Maken ful merrye and yeve the Olde Bille ye fingere withal

Yonge folke linken uppe on Twyttere & on there Black-beryes
To seke where the actioun will kicke offe
Whiche endes will be hotte tonyghte ?
Cryckel Wode ? Eylinge ? Hokkestone ? Godde knoweth where

Whanne it alle kicketh off the yonge fules goon out togyther
For to stelen Trayneres, Flatte-screne Tellyes, al maner of Blyng
And such-lyke craperie

Ye Olde Bille knoweth ful welle the nayme of eche bigge fysh in the blackamoor crewes
But they are as littel girles and hath notte the bottel to nycke them,
For fere the Pinkoes of Flete-strete wil calle them Racystes
And seke a Publicke Inquirie

But one nyghte this Olde Bille pulleth oute there fingere
And tayke doun a toppe gange-banger in Totten-Ham.
Than gan the Socyal Netteworkes to runne red hotte wythe
Poorley Spelete mesuages tellynge the yonge-blodes to cause
mayhemme & havocke in the lande
Ande to yeve the Olde Bille a goode hydinge withal

Thisse calle-to-armes was heded by manye yonge-folkes
Ande forth they wente to do the bydyng of there lederes
There faces hydden by hoodes forsooth
Like unto the Holy Palmer doing Godes werkes

Butte these folkes were notte seking salvacioun
As i trow they weren seking toppe-ende garments
& al maner of elecktrick gadgeterie from Curryes,
Foote Lockere & sundrie Shoppynge-Malls

Some dayes latere whanne they are uppe before ye beke
They sayen, wepinge lyke a bayby:
"i know nat what i was doinge, i juste tooke ye stuffe lyke
everyoon else ~~ i am ye victimme heere, is itte not ?"

In the prese manye of the scriveners callen these dodgye folkes Chaves
Whiche liven a ful merry liffe on there Estaytes
They doon no werke butt are givenne Fiste-fulles of moneye yclept Bennefittes
& they payen no rente on there Councylle Flattes

This folye is the braine-chylde of ye Labouring Partye
A hyve of fooles whych sucken uppe to thisse Under-Classe
Treting them as Heroes of the Classe Warre
& Admyringe there Rubbyshe Lyfe Styles

The Qene of thysse hyve of fooles hyght Harman,
She is an welthey Womanne but speketh not poshe
Notte since she lefte Publicke Schoole
Every nyghte it seemeth she is onne ye Wyreless giving it plentye
Agaynste her enemye the Wondrous Amazonne Mistress Phillippes

Thisse Harman careth not a jotte for ye Silaunt Majoritie
That payen there tax and are inne bedde before Midnyghte
Her delyghte is to bigge-uppe divers Singel-Mummes
Which have meny offspringe by sundry Babye-Fatheres

She sayeth thatte Jacke is as goode as his Mastere
And thatte one cultoure is as vallid as anothere;
She hopeth thatte yonge whyte folken will speke
Lyke the Blackamoor and copie his badde-boy garmes

Ye follye of thisse Labouring-partye is wel matched by there
imbecyle lacke of finauncial wisdome
Theyre lacke of Prudaunce hath caused a great Recessioun & Creddite Crunche
Notte to mentioun the Globale Meltdoun of ye Bankes

The chefe Clowne in thisse shippe of meddlynge fooles hight Gordonne Broun
Whych is actualie a Scottyshe-manne butte he giveth the lye to the publicke
imauge of the cunnynge Jocke who kepeth his eyen on everye pennye;
Thisse Broun hath Solde manye tonnes of the Kinges Golde for a pittaunce i trow

In troth my anciaunt Nanne coulden beter kepe the Kinges finaunces thanne thisse Broun !!

Anywaye after manye a yere the Publicke weren ne longere foolede by this crew of Halfe-Wittes
And they weren stuffede in the Electioun by a lande-slide of vottes
Nowe we are in the handes of the Torye party and somme others whose nayme i forgette
The toppe-dogges highten Dayve and Nykke; they are alyke as twoe pease in a podde
Or twoe buttockes of the sayme Bumme

The ledere of Londoun-toun hight Borris, a man with wilde heer as yelow as wex by my troth
Nexte yere the Worlde & his Partenere wille be comyng to Londoun for to seen the greate Games
In whych al manere of Sportes and Diversiouns willen be dysplayed for everie-one to admyre
Borris of the yelow here is sorely keene thatte the Riotages wyl bee a distaunt memorye by thenne

Dayve hath a secrette wapon uppe his sleve
to whyt a greate Constable from acrosse the Oceane
Who preacheth Zero-Toleraunce of any Cryme
Butte i am notte holdynge my Brethe


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