The Labour Party is made of spam
They are communists and are as smart as Pam
They l spend and spend more and more
Until the U.K is poor

Jeremy Corbyn is mad
He is very sad
He is made of trash
Just like an annoying ****
That is why I think the Labour party is *******

Slaves exist only to be worked to death.
That is why all slaves are dead.

Today, I met the son of a rag picker.

working at a landfill talks about a Biogas tomb,
but does not know that he sits on a methane bomb.

Talks about the suffering of animals, while he suffers from toxins,
redeems every moment of his life for indefinite sins.

Shoves through the rotten corpses and befriends the scavengers,
he wears a stained Spencer and soiled wayfarers.

His eyes are jaundiced, given the stench,
climbs the dirt, while his body starves but his hands are hench.

He looks curiously at my white glowing skin,
laughs at my soft palms throbbing on a dustbin.

He burns the crap, and high goes the flame,
snuffs out his little life, with this every day precarious game.

He bathes in sewer and eats near the crap,
he talks of the other day when he fell off the fill and his leg got snapped.

He is sliced at places and stabbed for stealing ***,
he earns his bread while others of his age mug a shot.

Authorities for his welfare complain about the aroma,
he worships this place as his life’s dogma.

Someday I wish may he smell the green grass,
wear a uniform and attend the chemistry class.

Prejudice he may, for the upcoming generations,
who spend a summer day carrying out these gnarly operations.

May fair go his skin and clean run his blood,
he is the saving grace, my new stench bud.

A Baby comes into the world  
In a warm blood of thick mortality
The concierge of Devil's property
Satan with no chill out of snowy hell cries
Pay your rent to have a peaceful Earth
the very day baby takes in air
I know you want to live in a womb forever
You need to know the hope you bring
To the one who carry you in a 9malt of labour
So be strong to end an unending race little one

Before the UK Election
Those Tory Trolls slagged off
The Labour Leader
Jeremy Corbyn
Unmercifully –
Dredging up his distant past,
Turning his heroic quest for Peace in Northern Ireland
Into an act of alleged “treason”
And much more.
They painted a grim grey scene.

But like King Arthur and his gallant knights,
Corbyn unsheathed his own Excalibur:
That mighty thing called “Hope”.
He offered us all a brighter future,
Except perhaps for the greedy rich,
To sweep through the enemy ranks
Upon his horse, “Momentum”.
Once more to the breach…

And as the opinion polls swing
More and more in his favour,
Victory for Labour
Is only a matter of time.

Paul Butters

tropic afternoons
spent under her arctic glares
my dent on cosmos

He perches in the slime, inert,
Bedaubed with iridescent dirt.
The oil upon the puddles dries
To colours like a peacock’s eyes,
And half-submerged tomato-cans
Shine scaly, as leviathans
Oozily crawling through the mud.
The ground is here and there bestud
With lumps of only part-burned coal.
His duty is to glean the whole,
To pick them from the filth, each one,
To hoard them for the hidden sun
Which glows within each fiery core
And waits to be made free once more.
Their sharp and glistening edges cut
His stiffened fingers. Through the ****
Gleam red the wounds which will not shut.
Wet through and shivering he kneels
And digs the slippery coals; like eels
They slide about. His force all spent,
He counts his small accomplishment.
A half-a-dozen clinker-coals
Which still have fire in their souls.
Fire! And in his thought there burns
The topaz fire of votive urns.
He sees it fling from hill to hill,
And still consumed, is burning still.
Higher and higher leaps the flame,
The smoke an ever-shifting frame.
He sees a Spanish Castle old,
With silver steps and paths of gold.
From myrtle bowers comes the plash
Of fountains, and the emerald flash
Of parrots in the orange trees,
Whose blossoms pasture humming bees.
He knows he feeds the urns whose smoke
Bears visions, that his master-stroke
Is out of dirt and misery
To light the fire of poesy.
He sees the glory, yet he knows
That others cannot see his shows.
To them his smoke is sightless, black,
His votive vessels but a pack
Of old discarded shards, his fire
A peddler’s; still to him the pyre
Is incensed, an enduring goal!
He sighs and grubs another coal.

Could someone bring back,
My innocent childhood days?
Even today on roadside,
I break stones with hammer,
In the scorching sun.

I also wish to swing,
In the mango orchard,
And run after,
The colorful butterflies

I also wish to enjoy,
The dazzling droplets of rains,
And run a paper boat,
In the rain water.

I too wish to go to school,
So that may paint my dream,
On a piece of paper.
But even today I work in the fields,
Like a child labor

I also wish to fly a purple kite,
And wish to fly high,
Up above the blue sky,
Like a free bird,

Is this my destiny,
That even today on roadside,
My weak back is forced,
To carry loads,
In the chilled nights.

I also wish to make,
Colorful fishes my new friends,
That swim in the river,
Nearby my village

Is this my destiny?
That today in the monsoon,
I’m weaving my dreams,
On the mounds of garbage.

Could someone bring back,
My innocent childhood days?
When today on roadside,
I break stones with hammer,
In the scorching sun

(By Kishan Negi)

We woke up again, the clouds are the same
We rouse again, the soil on the earth is the same
When the night draws we lock and dream
When the day storms we exist as labour machines