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An ode to an oder

This morning, as I awoke, there, on the radio was a respected poet preaching a moronic and hypocritical set of ideals beloved of the undergraduate left. Criticising corporations "and their ill-gotten gains," ignoring the fact that every step from the words leaving his mouth to coming to my ears was made possible by corporations - the wires, the mircrophones, the electricity, the radio I was listening on, etc. - and in every case bar one, the "ill-gotten gains" were people (or companies) voluntarily paying for the goods or services; where they had a choice, and the corporate gain was because they had convinced the consumer that their product was worth the price being paid. The exception? The BBC (which was where he had voluntarily come to spew forth his aural bile), which gets their ill-gotten gain through dishonesty, coercion and threats, and without the accountability which comes with having to convince the consumer to part with their money.

And, of course, "the industrio-military complex" and various (Western) leaders came in for serves. And his solution? We should all live on eco-farms. He doesn't make clear what we should do with the remaining 5.9 billion people on this planet. He also neglects that the Western liberal democracies which do allow people to live in peace are the exceptions in the history of the species - and isn't even the global norm now. In fact, even in civilised countries, you still get violence, crimes and domination. I don't think putting us all on eco-farms is really the answer.

But anyway, in honour of the poet's self-indulgent aural equivalent of a steaming turd, may I present...

An ode to an oder

You come on to my radio,
Preaching a simple life.
Simplicity? It's in your head!
Solutions: nought but strife.

You think we should return to land,
Our lives spent on the farm.
Where we can all enjoy the peace,
And none would come to harm.

You forget the plight of the sick,
Who do need modern drugs,
To walk or talk or breathe or live:
Need medicine, not hugs

Not through the kindness of baker,
Is there bread for us to eat.
And Adam Smith's gas companies,
Want money for the heat.

The market works for most of us;
A fair trade is no theft.
Your ideas would see us starve;
They're morally bereft.

Corporations are criticised:
All their ill-gotten gains.
What do you think the C stands for,
To give the Beeb its name?

Less flippantly though, who is it
Who makes the sick get well?
Drug companies make medicines -
That get here thanks to Shell.

Your attack on productives;
On those who do or make.
Seems so hypocritical
When all you do is you take.

For who is it that pays your bills?
The unemployed? The slobs?
No - from those who the companies
Provide money and jobs.

An unproductive waste of space,
From parasitic class.
The listeners - they all know that
You're speaking from your arse.

Our leaders make decisions that
Give you freedom to write.
You demonise them as evil,
In writing oh so trite.

He may not have your skill with words.
His head may be just mush.
Yet your ideas suffer when put
Against those of George Bush.

So you can string words together.
You craft poems with flair.
And yet you lack the substance of
The arch spin-meister Blair.

You come on to my radio
More muppet than Yoda.
A steaming turd on the airwaves,
You're just a bad oder.

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