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.

 

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