Here’s a new one about UKIP leader Nigel Farrage. Rhymed here (mostly) as Faridge, which, as Jeremy Hardy says, seems the proper, British way to do it.
The National Front in Barbour jackets
raise a haunchy thigh then slap it!
Vaudeville meets British Legion
keen as mustard (Not the Djion!)
a blight upon our rural regions.
Frigg-orf Froggies! Bog-orf Bosch!
EDL with tons of dosh
sect of nonsense, cult of tosh
Cool-aid? No! Weak lemon squash!
Gouty chaps in first class carriage
slap your guts for Nigel Farage!
Cream stuffed cat with verbal shits
droning on about the Blitz
the stoic wives in ration queues
all gusto, guts and thrifty stews.
And that, he says, is what we’ll lose
if Europe gets it’s way much more
Bring back inches! Bring back war!
Polish Plumbers – there’s the door!
Repatriate our ancient laws
and let’s annul the Brussel’s marriage!
Morris dance for Nigel Farage.
Who makes the likes of Gove and Hunt
seem worthy of a poll booth punt
who headline grabs and makes debate
about this fabled super-state
then claims he gives it to us straight.
And meanwhile, as this nonsense drones
this cod-lament for tea and scones
we’re drowning under pay-day loans
with Tories picking at our bones.
We must withstand this right-wing barrage
we must ignore the likes of Farage.
Who seems to think that if he’s nattish
you won’t spot his inner-fascist
Middle-Brits, he thinks you’re dense
with purple placards on your fence
he lies and calls it common sense:
Conserve, conserve keep Britain free
and hug it till it cannot breathe
We must protect our sovereignty!
As if we ever had any!
We plebs will never be charge
by cheering blue-blood like Farage.