Ant Smith

All poems

Our daily bread

Spud-you-like
Keep off the grass
Spud-you-like
Never-mind the gap
Spud-you-like, Spud-you-like, Spud-you-like

HE’S A -
Fuck-you-like, a
Fuck-you-like, a
Fuck-you-like
He’s made of -
Cellulite, of Cellulite, of Cellulite

Tony Blair…….
Is a blow-up dolly,
A sinful Cindy,
Or latex-Liz,
Never-worked out how, they
Pinned on the wig,
But you know what I mean
His leers obscene,
And I think, he knows,
The twist.

Got a premonition
when Tony Blair is DEAD
our next prime minister’s
name’ll be Fred.
He’s decent sort of chap -
He eats white bread,
he drinks light ale
doesn’t like to let it get to his head.
He can smoke a pack of tabs
between ‘now’ and ‘then’
always says ‘hello’ as he goes
round the bend
in the leafy shady lane
leading to the middle of NOWHERE

Tell me what you want what you really really want

His sons not really such
a bad chap
They banged him up in borstal for
stealing car hub caps.
Now I don’t know about
anything like that
don’t understand no
legal-eagle clap-trap,
but it sounds a trifle-little-
too much
when at the age of twelve
they can lock you up.

Tell me what you want what you really really want

All the bastard judges, peers and Queens
to be, to be, to be
can learn to wear a
rubber condom
so that we, can be, can be, can be
free in generations to come.
And the fucking bastard political scum
can learn to keep it fucking stum.
for them that think that they’re really great
are nowt to me, but a sick disgrace.
So don’t encourage ‘em, or egg ‘em on
or you’ll rue the day this game begun.

Tell me what you want what you really really want
I’ll tell you what I want what I really really want

The less words spoken
the more things said
all the politicians act
as if they’re dead -
Don’t Vote.
Leave it up to folk like Fred,
We’ll get by,
Give us this day our daily bread…