Choose a previous weeks' poem from the index on the left.
We Are The Champions
Our politicians may be perfect cretins,
The dimmest in the universe yet known,
Examples of how-did-they-ever-get-ins,
And every one a clone of other clones;
Our influence in world affairs receding
Like foreheads in the country of the bald,
Is there a single field where we’re succeeding,
Where were we chosen, when so few were called?
Was it the size of apathy in turnout?
Perhaps the scale of claims for compensation?
Perhaps the mass of junk mail that we churn out?
The mess that Gove has made of education?
Are we the ones whose language skills are worst,
Who speak the most proactive slew of jargon?
The ones who think too often of Geoff Hurst,
And can’t resist a pointless car-boot bargain?
Well, all of these, of course. But where we’re winners –
Pan-Europe champs, so say the style police –
Is this: we snack from breakfasts through to dinners.
We’re fat. Not thin. We’re clinically obsese.