I first saw John Cooper Clarke at Sheffield City Hall in ’78, opening for Be Bop Deluxe. He stepped onstage clutching a plastic carrier bag of half‑typed poems, plunged his hand into the chaos, and spat out whichever couplet fate delivered—a street‑lamp flash of punk prophecy. Now, midway through his ink‑splattered autobiography, that same off‑the‑cuff, razor‑sharp spirit felt tailor‑made for this latest jumbo grift. So here’s my best shot at a proper JCC recoil.
Air Farce One
They slipped him a jumbo—
Triple-A perk,
sealed with a wink
and a greaseball smirk.
“It’s a gift!” he grinned.
“It’s a grift!” I retort.
Supremely chicken—
the bench fell short.
Four hundred mil
for a nod and a leer—
a backroom deal
with 19th hole veneer.
Air Farce One,
mile-high crime,
runs on loopholes,
smoke, and mime.
Library-bound?
That’s the party line.
It’s a gospel of graft
for those without a spine.
Loomer’s twitchin’,
scenting dread—
fired her hawks,
smells a dud instead.
Levin’s disgusted.
Kinzinger’s apoplexed.
Even the MAGA moonies
are belatedly getting vexed.
“It’s legal!” they chant
with a star-spangled grin—
turns out the flag
can shroud most sin.
Ethics? AWOL.
Truth stone dead.
Justice? Twerking
on Lincoln’s bed.
The Air Force bows
in spit-polished defeat—
this ain’t diplomacy—
it’s duty-free deceit.
“Totally legal!”
he tweets on cue—
even the judge said,
“What else is new?”
And us? Lost luggage,
crushed in the hold—
history flogged,
conscience sold.
So good!!
Whoooooo that’s bang on! Can almost hear him reading it. Great job!!