Poem (Katie Hopkins)
Once upon a time
There was an evil monster
Whose ferocity was fed
Not by those it maimed
But by the pumping buzz
Of publicity and sound bite,
Controversy and sheer big-headed
Attention-seeking desperation
And it was called
Katie Hopkins.
And the more it fed the more
It scratched at the surface of
Polite society hoping that the
More damage it inflicted
The greater it’s substance would be
Only to find with each
Deep vicious cut
That people merely laughed at it.
How it scowled at the world
Like a mardy shark
Spoiled not by circumstance
But by the slow drip of publicity
Which it mistook for adulation.
How it fed so ravenously
On the eternal circle of
Jaded misguided opinion and response,
Prejudice disguised as truth.
Oh, Katie Hopkins,
Like a bad busker on the
Pedestrianised high street of proper debate,
A sad singer wailing at the world
Having only made 10p.
You’re like the kid in the quiet cul de sac
Whizzing up and down on her skateboard
Starting to become a nuisance.
Looking out from the window,
There she is again.
Whizzing up and down on her skateboard
Back and forth, hither and thither,
Whizzing up and down on her skateboard
Get off that skateboard, Katie Hopkins.
Get off that skateboard, Katie Hopkins.
Get off that skateboard, Katie Hopkins.
I like to think it’s an act.
No-one can be so stupid.
I like to think that you
Meet up with your friends
And you’re perfectly normal,
As easy going as the rest of us,
Hoping that one day we will all realize
That it’s a silly joke,
A grotesque parody,
Somehow revealing our own
Misgivings and
Actually adding something to the world.
Oh, Katie,
You vain fickle brained warthog,
You gloating flap mouthed pimple,
You xenophobic motley-minded weasel,
You rank vomit-inducing ne’erdowell
With a face like a permanently surprised frog,
You toxic, provocative, class-conscious,
suspiciously orange
Arse.
It’s like you’ve seen that Farage bloke and thought,
I’d like a piece of that,
Though he’s far too left wing for my liking.
It can’t be like this, surely,
It can’t be.
Yet a part of me suspects that it is.
If you didn’t exist,
Then we’d have to invent you.
And that, I suspect,
Is what’s already occurred.
Thank you, Mr Garnham. I think she’s less the skateboard rider and more the repeated ball against the wall kicker when you’re trying to watch the Antiques Roadshow.
I hope she sees your poem and has nothing to say.
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