Corona doesn’t care if you’re atheist or Anglican,
Whether you’re a Buddhist or have visited the Vatican.
This pathogen’s not fussy, there’s no discernment in a virus,
Not bothered who you vote for or that you don’t like Miley Cyrus.
You don’t need to drink from puddles to thirst for fresh, clean water,
You don’t have to suffer homelessness to value bricks and mortar.
You must experience bondage to free yourself from slavery,
You must learn to hate addiction to truly love sobriety.
by Jem Tovey
This poem was a written as a parody of Gil Scott Heron’s “The Revolution Will Not Be Televised” (itself a satire of how the broadcast media controls and subjugates Black America) and re-imagines it from a white, middle-class perspective:
You will not be able to turn on, log in and shop online at Waitrose, brother.
You will not be able to order that Little Black Number from ASOS, for your mother.
You will not be able to browse Laithwaites for vintage Bordeaux by the case,
Honestly, the broadband here’s an absolute disgrace.
You can’t post photos on Instagram, Facebook or Twitter,
Download speeds are glacial, it’s hard not to be bitter.
You can’t watch clips of Trump waxing braggadocious,
I swear this broadband connection’s simply atrocious.
There will be no mpegs of amusing RTAs,
No footage of Woodstock – Hendrix playing Purple Haze.
No GIFs, no Vines, YouTube’s always buffering,
This broadband’s providing a whole new level of suffering.
The revolution will not be on iPlayer, my connection’s too unstable.
This is the 21st century, where’s my fibre optic cable?
I’ve asked Virgin for an installation date, but they just keep on stalling.
We barely reach two megabits, this broadband is appalling.
Written for and read at the Batley Community Choir Christmas Concert 19/12/18
‘Twas the month before Christmas, and all through the town
Not a resident of Batley, was wearing a frown.
A small Yorkshire town, right proud of its past;
Where wool and its weaving meant that we grew up fast.