Near-Neebours

by Jim Mainland

See yun whit’s-is-name,
Jacob Rees Morgue?
Weel, him.
Wha does he pit dee a mind o?
Lang face, sleekit doon hair?
Stick a toothbrush tache on da upper lip…
See it noo?
A stretched oot version?

An his pal, Jobbo –
tak awaa da hair
an he’s da spittin image
o da idder fellow.
Kinda roond an bombastic,
aye makkin an erse o himsel?
An aye keen ta dismantle
wir ‘democratic structures’?

It’s no sae far-fetched, believe me.

Dey aa thowt ta begin wi da first twa
wis joost a pair o hermless fules.

It’s hard to say ‘I love you’ to a Tory

by Louisa Campbell

It’s hard to reason with people who make you so angry
you want to beat some sense into their cold, cold hearts.
And why would anyone listen to someone who hates them?
So, here you go: I love you, when you stash your cash
in the Caymans. I can’t remember which one’s legal –
avoidance, or evasion – but it’s fine, don’t worry;
it makes no difference to the starving children
lining up to be fed by Unesco. You’re marvellous
when you keep lying while people are dying of Covid
because you ignored the experts’ advice.
How totally scrumdiddlyumptious of you to give
contracts to chums to make test kits and masks
that don’t work, or never turn up. How lovely you are
to clear the streets of the homeless, so you
don’t have to breathe the nasty beggars’ germs.
You’re fabulous when you believe the poor
are poor on purpose; I love you, I love you
(please change).