2019 09 – Poems


What ever happened to Gonzales.

  No, not Speedy Gonzales,

but slow Gonzales.

  Took his baby daughter

from El Salvador, hoping to make it

  to Dallas.

Twenty-three months to reach the American Dream.

Got to the Mexican border, the Rio Grande.

Became a wet-back, the floating debris of Latin-America,

he and his baby daughter, drowned  among

the crammed.

So they acclaim the US the greatest power on earth

  when its dream is washed out, threadbare,

you could buy from any charity shop.

  A new president, a new makeover, more blood and lies.

Nevertheless,  the cargo-cult religion is still on the hop.

Superman wrung the necks of those

  violating his Latino backyard of

El Salvador, Nicaragua, Panama and

  Chile, then tasked

some of them to grow only bananas,

  designating them banana republics.

(Oh, how wonderful life was once in Mafia


Gonzales did become Speedy.

 Speedily died

as did his baby daughter.

  Return to sender,

not needed for cheap labour, humiliation

and Imperial slaughter.

Wilson John Haire, 29th January, 2019.


Poor old David Attenborough at


Always seems in a terrible hurry.

  Preaches on plastics and


  Hates the uneducated who voted


  Wants it reversed with a writ.

Yes, poor old David Attenborough.

  Loves anything furry.

Seems the human race gets in their way

  but reluctant to leave earth himself

to convey

  a fall in the population.

Lives in a long-lost nation.

W.J.Haire. 16th July, 2019


That jargon of US winners and losers syndrome:

  And the losers are:

Sewer workers, they who do bus driving, garbage,

   street lighting.

Mere gnomes..

  Then the power of money fades, for a moment.

Not though the kindness of heart

  did the lid on society lift

to vent,

  for a time

to pull the elite apart

  It was politics, the fight for the top seat,

Washington, the White House,

  the casting-up:

who did what, who said what

  that beat

the privilege of the under-age girls,

  the bitch-pups,

the £86 million pound house

  in Manhattan.

Now the dreary cell for a louse

  within walking distance.

The islands, the private jets.

  (so far away)

Time to batten

  down the hatches,

you suckers of Wall Street,

  for you’re maybe in his debt.

Everything’s in a fever now.


before it catches.

W.J.Haire. 14th August, 2019.