I don’t remember a thing, Rebekah

June 11, 2012

Occasionally I’m sent topical poems that would lose their zing if publication was delayed. Myfanwy Fox has written a rather enjoyable piece called  The Birdy Song (with apologies to Hilaire Belloc’s “Tarantella”) and I don’t want to leave it until the next regular Snakeskin (July being the Short Poems special.)
So here it is:

I don’t remember a thing, Rebekah.
I don’t remember a thing.
And the sacking and the racking
of my brain over that hacking.
And the sleaze they squeeze
from their interviewees.
And the whine of the self-righteous Guardian.
And the cheers and the jeers of the blogging mutineers
who hadn’t got a clue –
and neither had you –
and the News of the World caving in.
And the one! two! three! –
hit the keys
for the rogue gone chancing
askancing –
we weren’t backing his financing –
accessing those voice mails on a whim –
private paedoes mustn’t win:
that’s the spin.
And the tinkle of my millions coming in.
I don’t remember a thing, Rebekah.
I don’t remember a thing.

Never more, Rebekah.
Never more.
Dark Times.
Light on Sun’s crimes.
Listeners primed.
Off shore we’ll deplore media whores
in the pages of the one percent’s corps.
No sound
but the tweets
beneath our feet.
A film of me; Dad’s tea with Mrs T.
I’ll be gaily played by Russell Tovey –
as a puppy-like yuppy with less neurones than a guppy.
And, Rebekah, you’ll be played by Katherine Tate.
That’s your fate.
I don’t remember a thing, Rebekah.
I don’t remember a thing.


4 Responses to “I don’t remember a thing, Rebekah”

  1. I remember doing the original Belloc poem for a drama competition! A great take off and so right!

  2. Myfanwy Fox Says:

    Thanks, George, for posting it.
    And thanks, Lucile, for the kind appreciation.

  3. […] it in the mag until autumn, so might he put it on their blog now, while it’s still topical? So HERE it […]

  4. […] poem (comparing sorting clothing to sorting poems for a long-list), moved on to politics (my Leveson Inquiry poem was well received) and then finished with some filth in the classic British tradition of innuendo. […]

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