Post No: 21 In which Johnny puts a bit of perspective on a rich Tory MP’s demand for a pay rise

Here’s a quick one for National Poetry Day

It’s hard to get by on eighty one grand

It’s ok for you, you just don’t understand

Krug champagne is getting quite dear

You drink White Lightening or out of date beer

I have to buy foies gras for lunch and quails eggs for tea

But you can get stuff from the foodbank for free

My Savile Row wardrobe is varied and extensive

But I’m telling you people it’s bloody expensive

While you and the rest of your snotty nosed clan

Get all of your clobber from Matalan

I’ve got cleaners and gardeners and chauffeurs and cooks

I’ve to stock up my library with antiquarian books

You’re alright Jack with your bare ply-wood shelves

And we all know that grapes just don’t peel themselves

Post No.20: A Trio of Scribbles

No poem today just a few scribbles for yesterdays #nationalcartoonistsday

 

 

 

 

Post No. 19 : In which Johnny looks at the not so thin line between rich and poor under the spotlight of covid 19

Bless me reader for I have sinned

It has been five years since my last confession and since then I have done practically nothing.
So here is a true act of contrition. A bus ride and a half’s worth of insightful (or should that be inspiteful) rhetoric.

Don’t you think it’s funny that it takes the prospect of the end of the world to realise that the world has been spinning upside down from time immemorial.

I will give you an example:

I am the custodian of the public fund and we are in the shit. I’ve got sixty odd million people to look after and have decided that the fairest way to distribute the fund is roughly as follows:

1. You are a Prince or a Princess and Princes and Princesses live in fairy tales, untouched by earthly considerations. So it’s as you were. No change. A King’s ransom and a tug of the collective forelock.

2. You have 300 million pounds and in order to ensure that you still have 300 million pounds when this crisis is over I’m going to award you hundreds of thousands in aid.

3. You earn approximately 50 grand a year selling grossly inflated insurance policies to a captive market. I can’t quite match that, but to ensure you maintain a lifestyle to which you are accustomed, I can give you two and a half a month tax free. You must admit that this is not too shabby and as there’s not much to spend it on at the moment, it should stack up quite nicely for when the flights to the Caribbean resume.

4. You are still working, albeit risking your life and your family’s life every second of every day. You may be a National Health worker, a care worker, a shop worker or a bus driver. I can see the fear and trepidation in your eyes but you carry on regardless.  I award some of you a round of applause.

5. You are on a zero hours, minimum wage contract and I award you 80% of what is considered to be less than enough to live on. This is to ensure that when this is over, you will still be hungry, debt ridden and desperate enough to carry on grafting for next to nothing.

6. And finally you have fuck-all and to ensure that you can also maintain a lifestyle to which you are accustomed, I’m going to award you fuck-all.

Ah, you may say, but in the long run who is going to have to pay for all this?

Simple, I say,  just turn the list upside down and start from the top.

You may also ask doesn’t the public fund belong to everybody equally?

You’d think so wouldn’t you.

Anyway here’s a poem

The Middle Class Pandemic

It’s a middle class pandemic
And excuse the bitter polemic
But if you’ve got some cash you’ll get some more
If you’ve got fuck all you’re staying poor
We need to uphold the status quo
And you’ll get paid if you can show
That somehow you may be losing out
But it doesn’t apply to people with nowt

Again please forgive the invective
But who has the right to make funds so selective

And is this where selection will actually finish
If the supply of oxygen starts to diminish
Who will be at the front of the line
The homeless or Duncan Bannatyne

Don’t worry about it stay at home
Face time friends on the latest phone
If you’ve got a cough or feeling hot
Get yourself an Ocado slot
They’ll bring the goodies to your house
With the flash of a card and click of a mouse

But if you live from day to day
You’ll have to find another way
Wrap an old headscarf around your chops
And take your chances down the shops
And if you’re ethnic or indigenous poor
It won’t be Tescos at your door
It’s an evens bet from most bookmakers
For the bailiff or the undertaker

And if at night you get down to pray
To your God for giving you another day
Don’t mention Boris or the Labourites
Or sanctimonious privileged shites
Take a deep breath dry your tears
And thank the Lord for volunteers

Looking at You Tube videos
Of minor celebs doing dancing shows
But daddy you said all the parks were closed

I’m so sorry darling I do beg your pardon
But that’s not a park it’s what’s known as a garden

Sat here coughing and covered in sores
Watching the self publicity whores

The world has reached a perilous junction
And though many perform no useful function
They should maintain their status and wealth
By just repeating National Health

Don’t think me a cynic for pointing out
That I’ve got other things to think about
Like being stuck in some corner on my own
Where I slowly but almost certainly drown
So who gives a fuck about Becks and Posh
More likely to drown in a sea of dosh

And other prominent tax creatives
Pontificate to beleaguered natives
What would you consider a step too far
A benefit gig from Jimmy Carr

We need real stars like from times forgotten
Such as Elizabeth Taylor and Johnny Rotten

And now the liberal metro elites
Are trying to reclaim the streets
Exaggerating non-stories to the point of lying
While people all around are dying
They’re trying their best it’s all hands to the loom
But let’s get someone in on zoom
Expert or not I don’t mind
Just make sure they’ve got an axe to grind

I’m not saying these stories don’t want telling
I just accuse them of overselling
The views of narcissistic complainers
Preferably from some diehard remainer

And now N.H.S staff with a valid complaint
Get covered in anti-government paint

It must have been about ten to eight
I was watching the Secretary of State
Probably rightly taking flak
Just one wrong answer from the sack
Then a thought occurred just minutes later
About hordes of directors and administrators
Super-annuated business boffins
Between Matt Hancock and a pine wood coffin

Every week we stand and we applaud
The girls and boys on the covid wards

Risking their lives twenty-four-seven
And pledges to pay what they’re worth
I fear that they’ll get their reward up in heaven
Before they get it on earth

 

That’s that then

 

 

 

Post No.18: In which Johnny gets his comeuppance

Hello again

I must start with a word of warning that some of this may contain naughty words or terms that some people may find a bit much. I’m not into gratuitous profanity but sometimes it just has to go in.

Don’t you think it’s funny that some of the best-selling songs are all about heartbreak and abandonment. You know the sort of stuff, Without You by Nilsen or Love Don’t Live Here Any More by Rose Royce. Personally I’d rather not be reminded what an un-loveable wanker I really am, never mind spending all my pocket-money on a depressing 45.

Anyway if you can’t beat em join em, so here’s Johnny with a sad story in a similar vein called:

I Think My Missus Has Left Me

I think my missus has left me
I haven’t seen her for a bit
The wardrobe’s looking empty
And the oven is covered in shit

She’s been doing a lot on facebook
Acting all secretive and sinister
And the last time we had a good fuck
Tony Blair was still Prime Minister

She’s lost a lot of weight
At first I thought it was cancer
And she’s been texting her new mate
Some poncy ballroom dancer

She’s spent a lot on botox
And quite a bit on clothes
Like skimpy tops and short frocks
She’s got an earring through her nose

I guess I should have noticed
That things were getting iffy
But most of the time I’m half pissed
And she is permanently squiffy

The gap between us in bed
Has grown into a chasm
She lies there like she’s dead
And can’t be arsed to fake orgasms

I think I know the final straw
The event that made her leave
When we were coming home in the car
She was as silent as the grave

That’s what made her scoot
To take off without warning
We’d been to the car boot
A week last Sunday morning

I’d bought a rusty chisel
I think she’d got a book
Then it began to drizzle
And she started to moan like fuck

She said now it’s bloody raining
And you haven’t brought a brolly
I said I wish you’d stop complaining
Fat girls are supposed to be jolly

So now I sit here on my own
Hoist by my own petard
What’s that sticking out under the phone
It looks like a message card

It says don’t even try to find me
I’m off to live with Doug
I’m leaving this shite behind me
And we’re going to run a pub

Yes people think he’s poncy
But he knows how to treat a lady
And he sleeps in a tiger print onesie
But at least he’s not dark and shady

He makes me feel prettier and thinner
And you’re a miserable thoughtless twat
And if you’re looking for your dinner
It’s in the fucking cat

Well I ask You

Post No. 17 in which things go from bad to verse

Hello. I’m back

Those 2b leads were a long time coming. I’ll have to find a shop a bit closer to home.

In times of domestic upheaval and malcontent, I’ve always found it best to get your revenge in first. Although this is a hollow and short-lived victory, inevitably followed by total annihilation, it can offer a shred of comfort to a no-win situation.

So without further ado, here’s one called:

My Wife

 

 

My wife’s a lazy bastard

She never does a tap

And now I think she’s mastered

The twenty four hour nap

I’m looking at her now

Snoozing in a chair

A half eaten doughnut on her lap

And greasy matted hair

She’s a mistress of inaction

The children think she’s dead

But I’m sure I saw a reaction

When a fruit gum hit her head

The ironing’s piled up six feet high

The sink is full of pots

The kids are chasing round after a fly

And they’re caked in grime and snot

The carpet needs a hoover

The cupboards are bare of essentials

But she’s just out to prove her

Feminist credentials

It’s a classic case of brinkmanship

It’s her or else it’s me

The house is like a fucking tip

And I’d love a cup of tea

The bedrooms could do with a fettle

But who’ll be blinking first

What? Me fill up the kettle?

I’d rather die of thirst

 

Well there you go.

 

Post No. 15 : In which Johnny gets a bit fed up of the radio

Hello again

“Tell me people am I going insay-yay-yane” a Black Sabbath classic.

Well that’s a definite yes from me Ozzy. Over to you Shazza.

The thing that’s driving me insay-yay-yane at the moment is listening to radio shows with phone-in, text-in, facebook-in, twit-in, twat-in, sections discussing the hot topics of the day.

The main protagonists appear to be middle class, middling age personages who always manage to slide “When I was at yooni…” into the conversation. The other mob are largely made up of doddering reactionaries who, while slightly more endearing, are no less idiotic. They all share an unshakeable certainty in themselves and their opinions and a total lack of self-awareness.

Why do these people feel a need to spray their self-important diatribe all over the territory of the unsuspecting listener?

“Ah” you may say “But isn’t that what you do with your stupid blog?”

Well yes, that may be true but in my defence I’m quite confident that hardly anybody reads this stuff so the impact and discomfort caused will be minimal compared to a radio show with millions of listeners.

Here’s one called:

Dear Jeremy Vine

Dear Jeremy Vine
I think we ought to hang the swine

 We need a government with some clout
To kick these awful gippos out

 In my day we’d rather spend twelve hours shovelling shit
Than claim a penny in benefits

The way to beat the Taliban
Is to let the tyres down on their van

There’s a message just come through on twitter
It’s from Pete. He’s angry and bitter
About Birmingham council’s stated intent
To give the immigrants cheaper rent.

The reason the economy is up the creek
According to a memo on wiki-leaks
Is that Gordon Brown, so we’re told
Sent all our reserves to Cash for Gold.

E-mail Vine@bbc
Here’s one about the E.E.C
We beat the Germans in the war
Now they’re taking over through our back door
Some of them seem pretty decent chaps
But I’m still not sure I could trust the Japs.

I’ve heard you go on about doctors rotas
Government cuts and fishing quotas
But the issue that really drives me barmy
Is should trannies be allowed to join the Army
I’ve nothing against them and I’m sure they’re courageous
But their camouflage paint will take them ages.

Now we’ve got Alice on the line
A care assistant from Blaydon-on-Tyne
Hello Jeremy it’s about the woman who put that cat in a bin
I’ve checked in the Bible and it isn’t a sin
I know this type of behaviour shocks
And God would be pissed if she’d binned an ox.

And lastly an e-mail from someone called John
He says why do you let these nob heads on
They talk a load of tommy rot
They should be rounded up and fucking shot.

Well that’s that  for now. The pictures are getting a bit sketchy so I’ll be back when my 2b leads eventually arrive

Post 14: In which Johnny goes shopping

Hello again

Here’s another one.

This one’s about toys and it’s imaginatively titled:

Toys R Us

I’ve just made a trip to Toys R Us
The car’s not taxed so I went on the bus
A bit cautious I hear some of you say
But I tell you, you can’t be too careful these days
And I don’t want some nosey busy bod
Texting my details off to the plod

 After what seemed to me like an endless trek
I was met by a twenty foot poster of Shrek
Inside the door there was one even bigger
And I threaded my way to the action figures
The aisle was untidy, in fact it was messy
I tripped over boxes of Woody and Jessie

 I’m looking for something I can afford
My son wants a Retrofire Megazord
I find one on the second shelf
It’s not something I’d have picked myself
Fifteen quid! My eyelids bat
For a lump of gaudy plastic tat
It looks like it could have somebody’s eye it
Says age 4+ so like a twat I buy it

Now I’m wondering if this is this the worst toy ever
Recommended age? It should say never

 I started to trawl through rest of the junk
There’s a Randy Orton and a CM Punk
At a tenner a pop it’s plenty to pay
And to be honest these wrestlers all look a bit gay

There’s Transformers and Mega Blocs Daleks and Droids
I feel like I’m staring out into the void
I stand there and squint I take my specs from my jacket
Unpronounceable names in unopenable packets
That new range from Lego’s a bit hit and miss
But the guys from Bakugan are taking the piss
Ziperators in green, Zukanators in red
This stuff was conceived in an idiot’s head

I spotted a guy in a Toys R Us hat
I shouted him over, said what the fuck’s that?
He said I think it’s some plastic they spilled on the floor
And they’ve called it a Dragonoid Battle Star

There’s a bin full of discounted Pokemen
Star Wars figures and one from Ben 10
Benwolf his alien mate with five legs
The question then gets on it’s knees and it begs

 Why do our children like all this shite
And how do the marketers sleep well at night.
Would kids really believe that the world was in danger
If we melted down their Power Rangers
And whatever happened to Grandads in sheds
Knocking out scooters and cute doll’s house beds

 Later that evening I got a bit bored
And started to play with my boy’s Megazord
As I sat there I developed a plan
A fight to the death with my own Action Man.

Well that’s that for now.

Back soon with some more tripe about a radio phone in show.

Post No. 13 In which religion, science & money collide

Hello again.

Well that poem a day lark didn’t work out very well did it ?

I’ve often been accused of being profligate but no-one can ever call me prolific.

That last post was around Easter time, now it’s Ramadan and I can’t eat during the hours of daylight.
I’m not a Muslim, it’s just that I’m broke and have to wait until it gets dark before I can break into the local pie shop.
If I ever make some money from being an artist I’m going to spend it on drawing lessons.

That little intro brings us nicely onto today’s topic : Religion v Science.

It seems that the bien-pensants of the day like to treat anyone who believes in religion as some sort of  anachronistic dunce. It’s all Darwin this, Nietzsche that and Dawkins the other.
How they express their disdain depends on what their opponent happens to be carrying at the time. If it’s a hymn book and a packet of custard creams then they will unleash the full force of their anti-religion diatribe. If it’s a kalashnikov and a bushy beard, they tend to choose their words more carefully (and quietly).  Now there’s an idea for the General Synod.

No.  I wouldn’t advocate violence, agnosticism is a very peaceful religion.
Although I don’t  know whether or not I am an agnostic.

One thing I would like to ask the evolutionists is when did stuff stop turning into other stuff ?
I’ve seen pictures of people, animals and plants from ages ago and they all look the same as what we have now.
When did fish decide to stop coming out of the sea and walking about?
Did one of them catch sight of prehistoric man’s gas bill and think fuck this I’m going to keep my cold blood and take my chances with Captain Birdseye.
Scientists do lots of  cool things but one thing they are not good at is, after spending years of research and then theorizing in depth about a subject for which there is no empirical proof,  admitting they don’t actually know for sure. They just stamp their feet, embellish their findings and call non-believers idiots.
Just as religions deviate from moral guidance and alms for the poor into supernatural speculation for which, again there is no cast iron evidence.

So what do we do?
The scientists have never found the missing link (although my missus would disagree) and the religious brigade have never proved the existence of even one of the many Gods on offer.

Here’s Johnny with a tale of Biblical proportions about three likely lads who have decided to hedge their bets in:

Down the Collider

I went out for a drink with Richard Branson
At All Bar One in Notting Hill Gate
He was with Laskshmi Mittal and Bernie Ecclestone
They turned up over half an hour late
Branson went to the bar and got them in
He said what’s yours I said I’ll have a cider
I said you’re fucking late Dickie where have you been
He said we’ve just been down the collider

I said what’s that then a lap dancing bar
Where the girls all go round on skates
He said no it’s actually outside Geneva
They make particles accelerate.

We sat by the window the lads and me
It was too cold to sit outside
They were going on animatedly
About making protons and stuff collide

A Sally Army girl gave us a paper
War Cry I’ve not seen that in a while
Bernie got an attack of the vapours
On his face was a maniac smile
Look at this! He nearly choked on his beer
His little body was shaking with mirth
Somebody’s put in this article here
That the meek shall inherit the earth.

We started to talk about formula one
Tivo boxes and QPR
By this time most of our drinks had gone
So I went to the bogs then the bar
I got Bernie and me a pint of beer
Laskshmi and Dickie had Chateau Laffite
I thought fuck me you don’t get much change in here
As I made my way back to my seat

When I returned the guys were on
With much of that same old chatter
About Higgs bosons and synchrotrons
And the rearrangement of matter

I said come on now boys give us a break
I’ve only been gone for a minute
I’ve hardly had time to give the old lad a shake
And you buggers are straight back in it
We were talking about Jensen and Hamilton
And what happened down at Queens Park
Now it’s quantum mechanics and tevatrons
And bloody.. fucking.. quarks

I know you find it interesting but
It’s stuff that I don’t understand
They said go and fetch us a packet of nuts
And we’ll let you in on our plan

The nuts were some expensive brand
I had to pay by credit card
And there was Branson chalk in hand
Writing on the menu board
He drew some circles with lines at an angle
Some dots and some random letters
I said listen Dick my brain’s in a tangle
And I don’t understand it no better
We went back to the table and huddled around
And spoke in conspiracy tones
Bernie said right lads let’s lay our cards down
And get straight into the bones

It’s like this Johnny we’ve got lots of money
These two boys and myself done alright
You’d think with such wealth that our outlook was sunny
But there’s something disturbs us at night.
It’s not only us three that’s in on this game
And I can only give you the gist
It wouldn’t be right to start naming names
But just check out the Forbes richest list.

Between us we own quite a big part
Of the free world’s financial resources
Some spend it on houses some spend it on art
And the arabs just waste it on horses
Throughout the globe our tentacles spread
Our spoilt brat children are wanting for nowt
We control all the media from here to NZ
We have influence and political clout

We’ve mansions and cars and diamonds and gold
We’ve got governments tucked up in our pocket
And if we get bored we can boldly go
For a ride in Dick Branson’s space rocket.
Our banking brothers who took such huge risks
With ordinary people’s money
Are unchastened and still taking the piss
If weren’t so tragic it’d be funny
Everyone knows they should be banged away
But they’re not because we’ve bought off the plod
And now the only thing that stands in our way
Is the sacred word of God

We go out for tea at the Bombay Brasserie
We get Harrods to stay open late
But what troubles us is that we don’t have a key
To get through the heavenly gates

I’m thinking what the fuck’s he on about
And staring down into my ale
This is when Bernie buts out
And Laskshmi takes over the tale

I can see that you’re thinking what’s this got to do
With particle beams quarks and protons
I tell you that I was mystified too
Until I spent half a day down the Hadron
What these people can do with atoms and shit
Would blow your mind away
They gave us a demonstration of it
Way back in the middle of May

They stood us behind this metal screen
Then they vaporised a fly
They shot out some sort of laser beam
And it reappeared right in front of our eyes
It flew straight out of the contraption
And landed on the wall
I checked it to see if any damage was done
There seemed to be fuck all
Now I’d heard about these experiments
But for me this was the decider
We made a deal right there and then
To rent this Hadron collider

I know that old Bernie here likes to digress
To waffle and elaborate
But we’ve been checking up on the boffins’ progress
And that’s why we showed up late
What we want is achievable there’s no doubt
They’ve already done it with mice
We told them to get their finger out
We need it finished before Bernie dies

Now not a word about this on your blogs or your tweets
If you do we’ll just sue you for libel
I’m telling you Johnny this fucker is sweet
We’ve gone and outsmarted the Bible
You can’t imagine what this breakthrough will mean
To the immoral the greedy and craven
The good news for those whose wealth is obscene
Soon the rich man will get into heaven

It’s cost us a fortune it’s drained every cent
We’ve cajoled we’ve had to haggle and wheedle
But at the end of the day it will be money well spent
When we shoot a camel through the eye of a needle

Well would you credit it. The cheeky devils.

 

National Poetry Month : Poem 5

Well it looks like I’ve failed miserably with my one a day challenge but I suppose it’s better than one a year.

Thanks to  all the people who are following this blog.

I must issue a word of warning that some of the posts will contain language that some people may find offensive. I try to keep it to a minimum and in context but sometimes it just has to go in and I wouldn’t like anyone to be offended or taken by surprise when they see it’s not all about bunny rabbits and pussy cats (oops).  I will try and have a proper home page one day.

I don’t think there’s any swearing in today’s offering.

So Maggies gone.
Far be it from me to diss the recently departed, but as everyone and their grandmother seem to be offering some sort of critique, measured or otherwise, I might as well throw in my two pennyworth.

Before we start I would like to point out that I find the organised celebrations of  Baroness Thatcher’s death unedifying. In fact totally disgraceful. However the syrupy platitudes are also disingenuous if not totally dishonest.

I suppose that her lasting legacy is that the country is now subject to the whims of psychopathic spiv bankers and foreign conglomerates. Sold off and sold out.
One of the more disturbing consequences is the way the police now deal with legitimate protest by employing intimidation and indiscriminate violence . I was at Orgreave and saw what really happened and how the media and television news twisted the facts. A few years later and just a few miles away 96 football supporters, men, women and children, died as direct result of this new “let’s get tough on the plebs” policy for crowd control engineered or at least encouraged by Thatcher. Again the facts were falsified by the police and the media with collusion by Mrs T herself.

Maybe the people celebrating Thatcher’s demise should save some of their ire for the duplicitous Tony Blair who had every opportunity to right some of the wrongs done to the communities he claimed to represent. He didn’t and even went so far as to multiply the body count exponentially by becoming involved in another war which could have and should have been stopped before it started.

I’ve tried to look for something positive to say but as far as I can see, the only good thing she ever did was to abolish that awful school milk.

So with apologies to the late great Burl Ives and the late, and perhaps not so great, Maggie Thatcher here’s:

There Was an Old Country That Swallowed a Lie

There was an old lady who was a Prime Minister
Until her own party finished her
She was a Prime Minister

 She became a Prime Minister to stop the kid’s milk
Of Tory ilk
She stopped the kid’s milk

 She became a Prime Minister to punish the workers
She thought they were shirkers
So she punished the workers

Perhaps she’ll die

 There was an old lady who was a Prime Minister
Her agenda was sinister
When she was Prime Minister

 She became a Prime Minister to sell council houses
Selling off houses is what she espouses
For this she was blessed with plaudits and thanks
For putting more folks in the pockets of banks

 She became a Prime Minister to shut down the mines
Leaving communities lagging behind
Their counterparts in the prosperous south
Generations hand to mouth

 She became a Prime Minister to sell people shares
In industries that were already theirs
The next day the rich men just hoovered them up
The public couldn’t believe their luck
A washing machine or a fortnight in Spain
Thirty years later we’re feeling the pain

 She became a Prime Minister and took the Falklands back
Put hundreds of men in body sacks
News of casualties made her cry

Perhaps she’ll die

 There was an old lady who was a Prime Minister
Megalomania diminished her
When she was Prime Minister

 She became a Prime Minister to court the U.S.
Dancing with Ron in her best party dress
America was happy to nurture this bond
For as long as we housed all their nuclear bombs

 She became a Prime Minister when Britain was flagging
Gave Johnny Frenchie a right good handbagging
But if you look closely the evidence shows
That she sold off our country from under our nose

 She became a Prime Minister to empower the police
To bring the miners down to their knees
Once famous for fairness and total neutrality
Now driven to acts of naked brutality
Impunity for the thick blue line
She bribed them with hours of overtime
This was their culture now not a quick fix
And it led to the deaths of the ninety-six

Perhaps she’ll die

 There was an old lady who was a Prime Minister
And they all try to mimic her
Even Labour Prime Ministers

 She became a Prime Minister to set an example
For all those that followed but oh what a sample
They try in vain to follow her lead
With a programme of asset-stripping and greed
Now the country is bankrupt and it’s going to get worse

She’s dead of course

 Well there you go. As they say it’s grim up north.

Back to the proper chronicles soon.

National Poetry Writing Month : Poem 3

Well its day 3 and I must admit I never thought I’d get this far.

The days are getting longer and the poems are getting shorter.

Here’s one called:

Korean up the Apocalypse

 

Kim Jong-il
Kim Jong very-il
Kim Jong die
Millions cry
Kim Jong’s son
Kim Jong-un
Mega-tons
Mushroom clouds
Shops have no food
They only sell shrouds
He could be thinner
He looks like a boy who enjoys his dinner

Will we make it to day 4?  Not at this rate