It’s eleven-nine, fee fie fo fum,

I smell the oily slickness of stars and stripes

with aerodrome dreams and battle drum,

masturbating with guns, masticating gum,

flogging dead cows with flags and bagpipes,

bombarding with bombastic ass-wipes.


Come, chemical weapons, wipe out Great Britain,

sacrifice the Saxons, kill the Celts!

Hold your hands out, they’re about to get bitten

by Titans who won’t tighten their burly belts.

The Kings Road roasts, the Royal Mile melts.

Lie down, Thames lion, as tame as a kitten.


Or wake up and fight. The future’s not written.





© Archie Macjoyce


© archiemac 2017
Views: 993
critique and comments welcome.

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10 Comments on "Eleven-Nine"

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passion is a noble thing. I like this, stirs the blood in a chaotic world.

Hi Archie, Bold, bold writing full of fury. We aught to be full of fury, not helpless kittens meekly accepting our fate. We are responsible for our destruction through apathy and neglect to question the narrative churned out by those with no soul. The Royal Mile and auld Edinburgh weathered many storms, plague, terrible poverty and many acts of savagery but we cannot survive treason from within. The offered hand will not be bitten, the whole body will be devoured. All we hold dear is in danger and the skies above my trip round the graves of the great and… Read more »

Clever, clever rhyming pattern to the rhythm of fee foe fie fum – I smell the blood of an Englishman. Full of passionate fury at the tyranny of power and the bloated establishment. I, too, despair at the plight of the British people the make up of which is so different from when we left 43 years ago to live in little old New Zealand (just prior to entry to the Common Market). Please allow me to nominate this very passionate and clever poem.


Och, such malaise about the oh, so special relationship. I really do think Trump is contriolled by an evil brain-eating Tribble on the top of his head. Mitch

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