Poems
by Tony
Dawson
Julius Caesar Visits Britannia for the First Time
“What year is it?” asked Caesar,
turning to the nearest geezer
mounting guard upon the wall,
“I feel I need a change from Gaul.”
“Er… it’s 55BC,” came the reply.
“Goodness me, how time does fly,
but what’s all this about BC?
Ab urbe condita was good enough for me!”
“Oh, BC’s the latest thing—used by soothsayers and seers.
It’s all the rage among their peers.
Ab urbe condita’s so passé
as the Gauls are wont to say.”
Caesar frowned and scratched his chin,
not sure if he was being taken in.
“As I said, I’d like a change.
Which places are in easy range?”
“Britannia’s not that far away—
we could pop over for the day.”
“Right, let’s call up a couple of Legions,
ones familiar with these regions.
Let’s take numbers Seven and Ten—
that’ll give us plenty of men
to occupy the beach at Dover.
And if anyone’s there, they can move over.
It’s late summer, so let’s set off tomorrow.
Got a swimsuit I could borrow?”
They spent the next day on their bireme
rubbing in the latest sun cream.
When they arrived, to their surprise,
clouds were covering the skies
and yet the cliffs were crammed with Brits
all of whom were having fits
at the sight of so many Romans.
Caesar, after checking all the omens,
took his men along to Walmer
where the coastline looked much calmer.
There he went ashore and said, “I’m Caesar.”
A Brit in woad responded, “Where’s your visa?
I thought you Romans were hot on laws.
Don’t forget this land’s not yours!
Get back on board and disappear
and if you decide to visit us next year
make sure you’ve got your papers with you
or you’ll be standing in a queue
until your gladius goes rusty
and I’m not kidding—trust me.”
Back on board, great Caesar spoke:
“Next year I’m going to thump that bloke!
Britannia’s full of jobsworths who are so smug.
Next time, Tribune, I’ll punch his ugly mug.”
Julius Caesar Returns to Britannia
A year rolled by and Caesar thought
it was high time those Brits were taught
to show the Romans more respect.
Insults could not go unchecked.
So, Caesar called up his Nº 2
to tell him what he planned to do.
“Remember that officious Brit,
the one I said I’d like to hit
because he wouldn’t let the mighty Caesar
into Britannia without a visa?”
“Oh, you mean in fifty-five BC
when you and I went on a spree
in a bireme with a couple of legions
looking for Brits and blonde Norwegians?”
“Right, but now it’s seven hundred AUC,
for you, no doubt, fifty-six BC
and I want to sort out that little man
so sit by me and hear my plan.”
“OK. But it’s fifty-four BC for your information
because we count backwards with this new notation.”
“So time’s going backwards? You must be barmy.
How did they let you join my army?”
“It’ll all come clear when C himself appears,
though that won’t be for fifty-four years.
It’s not worth worrying about for now
and I’m sure you don’t want to have a row.
Caesar pulled up a seat and took off his coat.
“Just have a look at this flat-bottomed boat
I’ve designed for landing in Kent—
I think you’ll find it’s denarii well spent.
Don’t forget the water’s pretty shallow.
We need to get in close to shout ‘Hallo!’”
“Nice one, Caesar. How many do we need?”
“About 800 ships should do the job.” “Agreed.”
“And I thought five legions and one or two
thousand cavalry would certainly do
to give the Boys in Blue something to think about.
The mere sight of that lot should sort them out.”
Summer’s the time for holiday trips,
so Caesar loaded up his ships
and with his legions off he went
to find a landing stage in Kent.
They disembarked and marched inland,
as Caesar was sick of sea and sand,
until they found some Brits to fight
and quickly put the lot to flight.
“Wednesday’s child is full of woad,”
muttered Caesar, tramping down the road.
So they were all born on the same day?!
Pretty strange, Tribune, wouldn’t you say?”
“Great Caesar’s wrong about our foe.
‘Wednesday’s child is full of woe’
is how the saying goes, I’m afraid.
Perhaps you need a hearing aid…
Woad is just a kind of war paint—
primitive, but rather quaint.”
“And what about their greasy hair?”
“They could blue-rinse that for all I care,”
snapped Caesar, feeling like a duffer.
Now the Tribune knew the Brits would suffer.
Meanwhile, news came winging from the coast
that made old Caesar choke upon his toast:
Neptune and Eolus had been very naughty
sinking plenty of his ships—about forty
according to reports. Caesar, purple in the face,
roared, “I call that a damned disgrace!
If they’re supposed to be our gods,
why are they helping the other bods?”
“Here’s a priestess; you should heed her.
She says the Brits got a new leader
called Cassivellaunus, she’s been told,
and by all accounts, he’s pretty bold.
He gave the Trinovantes a right bashing
and boasts he’ll give us all a thrashing.”
“He’ll change his tune soon enough
when he’s parading in the buff
at my Triumph back in Rome.
It’ll be a long time before he sees home!”
muttered Caesar through gritted teeth,
fingering his sword in its sheath.
But Cassivellaunus proved elusive
making Caesar still more abusive
about the blue-painted locals,
calling them all stupid yokels.
Caesar growled, “Well, I guess
we’ll put old Cassi under stress.
We Romans always win our wars—
just you watch him wet his drawers!”
Now that he was in dire straits,
Cassivellaunus called up his mates,
but still the Romans won the day
and Cassivellaunus had to pay:
a hostage here, a hostage there,
some British pounds to pay their fare,
and a load of post-dated visas
in case there were any returning Caesars.
“Fat chance of that!” snapped Julius, the Glorious,
not knowing that the stammering Claudius
would se-se-send his le-le-legions
To reconquer the southern regions.
__________________________
Envoi
Although Caesar found Gaul so galling,
he thought Britannia was appalling.
The natives were hostile and quite coarse—
they drank and bawled till they were hoarse.
He also realized they were all the same
as the jobsworth he’d met when he first came.
Caesar groaned, “I’ll never understand
why anyone comes to this damned land.
They’ve got such ruddy awful weather.
It’s time to leave here, hell-for-leather!”
“Caesar has decided, as the boss,
that we’re going back. It’s time to cross
the channel and leave this jobsworth’s paradise
to the woad-covered Brits and their woad-covered lice!”
Shit Happens
Especially in a WC
organized by FIFA
(Funds Invited For Accounts)
that takes more bungs
than all the barrels
in the world.
Backhanders were the reason
the last World Cup was held
in Qatar, the sand locked country
that sounds like a snotty cold,
where migrant workers
were worked to death
constructing the stadiums,
and where you’ll never see
a rainbow in the sky,
let alone one on an armband.
The tournament was dick-
headed by a Swiss
with a morality bypass.
Forever attracted to money
like a house fly to honey,
he cosied up to Trump
and kissed his rump
because in 2026, the WC,
a golden one, of course, will play
many of its games in the USA.
New Bronze Plaque on the Pedestal of the Statue of Liberty
“Other lands can keep their so-called pomp!” cries he
With orange lips. “Fuck off you tired, you poor,
You befuddled masses, what’s in it for me?
You wretched refuse, keep off our teeming shore.
Throw these, the homeless, in the storm-tossed sea,
I’ll build a wall outside my golden door!”
Donald J. Trump, March 2025
Long Live the King!
The president elect has cleared the decks
and everyone’s bettin’ he’ll favor each cretin
of dubious note by suppressing the vote.
You’d better not mock as he turns back the clock
to when having a king was a real thing.
So, which loyal fool will be Groom of the Stool,
the royal ass wiper who’ll change his diaper?
A botoxed offender against one young and tender
stepped up to the plate but was overtaken by fate.
The cabinet of picks is stuffed full of pricks
handpicked by a narcissist who is clearly a Stalinist
in his ruthless intentions to shit on conventions.
When the military’s on patrol, he’s in control.
Muskrat funded the place he filled in the rat race.
RFK Jr the antivaxxer will fit right in with the anti-taxer
Supreme Leader and his understudy, the forcible breeder.
