Mike Falconer

The Ballad of Mr. Pig’s Farm

Mr. Pig had taken ownership of the farm
The Farm had some problems
Not least the legacy of the 46 former owners
And Mr. Pig was determined to fix the problems his way
“I’m going to make this farm great again” said Mr. Pig

The sheep looked on concerned
They knew something of Mr. Pig
And most of them did not like what they had seen
But there were also sheep who thought the world of Mr. Pig
“King Pig” they called him
“He’ll make us great again and punish those who need punished” they continued
Who needed punished exactly
they could not quite agree on

Now the Farm used wolves to control the sheep
It also used them to protect against wolves from other farms and wolves from the forest
Mr. Pig secretly wanted to be a wolf, so he gave them whatever they wanted
He removed their leashes
He removed their collars
He bought them whatever they wanted paid for with the wool of the sheep

The majority of the sheep bleated in complaint
“What are you doing?
We did not want this,
We have rights”
Mr. Pig just laughed
“I make the rules, and this is for your own safety”

With every change on the Farm, most of the sheep bleated in complaint
Mr. Pig tied red bandanas on the most loyal of sheep
To let the wolves know which ones were his supporters
“Don’t be difficult, don’t argue” said the sheep with red bandannas
“Mr. Pig is going to bring us the good life, learn to take a joke”

Every night the sheep could hear the wolves
Not just patrolling the fence line
But inside their pen
The wolves no longer talked to the sheep
And had started to wear masks
The sheep could no longer tell one wolf from another
When morning came one of the sheep would be missing
Usually a brown or black one
And the wolves would be a little fatter

“We are better than the sheep” sang the wolves
“The Wolves are making the farm great again,
Long live Mr. Pig,
We tow the thin red line”

Mr. Pig made money by selling the sheep’s wool
But Mr. Pig wanted more
He was a pig after all
“I have a biggly new place for some of you to live” said Mr. Pig to the sheep
“Where you will be safe and secure
and most importantly with your own kind”

The brown and black sheep were herded onto trucks by the wolves
And they were never seen again by the remaining sheep
“Where are our brown and black friends?”
said some of the remaining sheep, usually the ones without red bandannas
“They are living their best lives” said Mr. Pig looking at his brand-new gold watch

Soon it was the rainbow-colored sheep who were rounded up and loaded onto trucks
“There is no place for your type here” said Mr. Pig
The sheep, knowing that complaining to Mr. Pig would make no difference, complained to each other
“When will this stop?”
“It could happen to us!”
“It couldn’t happen to us” said the sheep with red bandannas
“We trust Mr. Pig”
But they looked a little nervous to the other sheep

The herd of sheep grew ever smaller and smaller
As Mr. Pig and the wolves grew fatter and fatter
The wolves had grown so fat that they no longer listened to Mr. Pig
They knew he lied
Only cared about money
And he was just a pig after all

When the last truck full of sheep left for the slaughterhouse
The sheep bleated “How could you do this to us Mr. Pig, we loved you”
Their red bandannas offsetting their snow-white coats
Mr. Pig replied “This is just the art of the deal and you are just sheep after all”

Mr. Pig gazed out over his orderly empty farm
“My farm is finally great” he said
Spotting some remaining sheep shit he told his wolves to take care of it
But wolves don’t eat shit at the best of times
And they no longer had sheep to eat
The farm did not seem great to them
So they pounced on Mr. Pig and ate him alive
For while the wolves liked mutton they also liked ham
And they were wolves after all

After trying on Mr. Pigs clothes and deciding they were not for wolves
They melted away into the forest leaving the farm abandoned, decaying, and rotting
The legacy of Mr. Pig

_{Image a combination of works by Imágenes Cristianas y Poderosas and Charly Gutmann from Pixabay}

His Story

Those who prevent history from being read intend to repeat it

Bombs bombs bombs
It’s all distraction for money and power
Sixteen million dollars
Forget about Jeffrey Epstein

Grift grift grift
Look to the left, look to the right
Two hundred million dollars
Forget about Jeffrey Epstein

Chaos chaos chaos
Show us your papers, show me some ID
Two hundred and five million dollars
Forget about Jeffrey Epstein

Those who prevent history from being taught intend to repeat it

Disburse, disburse, disburse
Hands behind your back, stop resisting
Six hundred and eight point four million dollars
Forget about Jeffrey Epstein

Hate, hate, hate
Make America great again
Three point nine billion dollars
Forget about Jeffrey Epstein

Buy, buy, buy
Deport the homegrowns
Eight billion dollars
Forget about Jeffrey Epstein

Those who prevent history from being learned intend to repeat it

Fear, fear, fear
Prosecute Obama for treason
Forty-five billion dollars
Forget about Jeffrey Epstein

Tariff, Tariff, Tariff
Free Ghislaine Maxwell for testimony
One hundred and seventy billion dollars
Forget about Jeffrey Epstein

Lies, Lies, Lies
Visit the gift shop at Alligator Alcatraz
Five Trillion Dollars
Forget about Jeffrey Epstein

Those who prevent history from being understood intend to repeat it.

_{Image: The Deadly Sins Dominated by Death by James Ensor}

@wordoutlet
A reading of my poem “His Story” at the Speakin Weird open mic at the Gailic Lane Cafe in Aberdeen, Scotland on March 16th 2026. This poem was written in July 2025 and it’s more relevant now than ever. #creatorsearchinsights #spokenpoetry #poem #poetry #deepmeaningpoetry
♬ Villains Beat – Walter Landors

Unreliable Narrator now on sale!

My new collection of poetry, Unreliable Narrator, is now available for sale from Avantpop Books.

From the book jacket:

"Commentary is inherently untrustworthy. By definition, it is one person’s view shared with others. Our self-narration of our personal lives, of our thoughts and beliefs, our very world is a one-sided affair. How reliable a narrator can we be of ourselves and how we view the world? Should we accept the inherent unreliability of our daily lives in what we are told, in what we read, and in what we watch? 

In this third volume of poetry from Las Vegas poet Mike Falconer, we explore the writer’s views of politics, historical events, his personal life, and the place he calls home as an unreliable narrator. 
Whether he is to be trusted is up to you."

https://avantpopbooks.com/products/unreliable-narrator-poems-by-mike-falconer

Unreliable Narrator

Mike Falconer’s third book of poems, Unreliable Narrator, is now available for preorder.

“Commentary is inherently untrustworthy. By definition, it is one person’s view shared with others. Our self-narration of our personal lives, of our thoughts and beliefs, our very world is a one-sided affair. How reliable a narrator can we be of ourselves and how we view the world? Should we accept the inherent unreliability of our daily lives in what we are told, in what we read, and in what we watch?

In this third volume of poetry from Las Vegas poet Mike Falconer, we explore the writer’s views of politics, historical events, his personal life, and the place he calls home as an unreliable narrator.

Whether he is to be trusted is up to you.”

Death Cult

We are the death cult
The victims of history
Never again
Turned into never against us
But not, never by us
Drunk on our power
Paid for by Americans with no healthcare

We are the death cult
Genocide an instrument of statecraft
Avoidance of prosecution for corruption
And of course crimes against humanity
But for what do we care about international law
Here in the killing fields of the stateless

We are the death cult
Using the West’s own hand wringing
Against themselves
They would rather go blind
Than be reminded of turning an blind eye eighty years ago
The tail that wags the dog

We are the death cult
Absolutists till the day we die
There is so middle ground
Just our ground
Gifted by god, history, and the racism of others
That dovetails with the racism of our own apartheid

We are the death cult
Making the most powerful nation on earth our bitch
Our client state
War and politics as a zero sum game
Bombs in personal devices
Poisoning rice with opiates
Killing the hungry
Annihilating the dispossessed

We are the death cult
And if you have not realized yet we don’t care
We are Samson
We will pull the temple down around us all
Dancing on the tightrope of World War Three
The arbiters of the language of mass murder
Destroying all criticism by proxy
For what do we care about racism
As long as you support our nationalism

For we are the death cult.

_{Image from}_{https://publicdomainreview.org/}

No Kings

No Kings
Tweaked by their puppet strings

No emperors
Losing their tempers

No dictators
Trying to be crusaders

No disappearances
And prosecutions for interference

No overseas prisons
Except for politicians

No secret police
Patrolling the streets

No masked public servants
Acting as insurgents

No facial recognition
Storing biometric data without permission

No plastic munitions
Used without preconditions

No tear gas
Used to suppress and harass

No curfew
The authorities are still supposed to serve you

No troops on our streets
Under the pretext of a breach of the peace

No martial law
That we all foresaw

No military parades
Feeding into orange charades

No unbridled executive power
A human centipede waiting to devour

No sacking of the public purse
Make the billionaires reimburse

No oligarchs
Instead start quoting Marx

No plutocrats
They are like sewer rats

No Fascism
Turning the screws on the class system

No Supreme Court
They are brought and paid like an escort

No Freedom
In this fiefdom

No republicans
Who seem to want to go back to Dickens

No democrats
They are like Guildenstern and Rosencrantz

No bill of rights
Not even the highlights

No constitution
Without revolution

No Kings

Orange is Not a Colour

Two of my poems are in a new collection from the UK edited by Finn Hall and published by A Blot from the Blue.

“Orange is Not a Colour: Poems against totalitarianism” is an anthology featuring poets from Scotland, Wales, England, France, Sweden, Australia, Malaysia, Singapore, India, Mexico, and the USA.

I’m humbled to have “The Clown Show” and “Coup d’état” included with so many great poems and poets.

Orange is Not a Colour can be purchased here.

Roll Over, Tickle our Bellies, and Play Dead

We are now the Empire
We were always the Empire to the rest of the world
The ones dropping bombs from the stratosphere
Or remotely piloting missiles through the windows of mud huts
Destroying countries to save them
But now we are at the sharp end of our own pointed stick
We are the ones kicking down doors
Bundling dissidents into unmarked vans
And keeping secret prisons

At times it’s felt like half our society was predicated on protecting ourselves from tyranny
Our culture wars ignited by the need to give our government pause
Don’t tread on me because I bite back
Allowing our children to die
So we could arm ourselves for freedom

But then tyranny came in the middle of the night
With a no-knock warrant,
or no warrant at all,
or to the wrong house,
or after the bad guys had moved out
“Everything would be okay as long as we just complied”
How can we stand our ground when we have no ground to stand on

Or be shot with our hands in the air
Or be shot lying on the ground
Or be shot because of the color of our skin
Or be shot because of a disability
Or be shot because we think differently
Or be shot with a pan of water in our hands
Or be shot because we know our rights
Or be shot because we are scared

Roll over, tickle our bellies, and play dead,

It’s just a few bad apples
We were told
But that’s the point
The bad apples infect the rest of the barrel
Turning the barrel rotten
That’s how the analogy works

So when the tyrants want a secret police force
They have one already on ICE
With cooperation from what is an occupying army in all but name
Living out their wet dream
Power without accountability
Buying the tacticool leftovers
From our foreign adventures in tyranny
When the only tool you have is a hammer
Every issue looks like a nail

Where are all the resignations
from those that are supposed to protect and serve?

Where are all the armed militia
being necessary to the security of a free State?

Where are all the freedom loving zealots
Living in fear of a time of government overreach?

They are cheering from the sidelines
Because it was never about protecting and serving
Just like it was never about protection from the government

Roll over, tickle our bellies, and play dead,

When does resistance become revolution?
When we recognize the tyranny both without and within
When we stop making movies about our men with guns
That are outnumbered and outgunned
By poor people whose land we have invaded
and who live in mud huts
When we stop watching TV shows about cops with hearts of gold
who bend the rules to see that justice is served
Bending the rules gets innocent people shot
and convicted of crimes they did not commit

When does resistance become revolution?
When we recognize that we have been in this mess for a while now
That the want for change is real and anyone who offers it will find an audience
Even a lunatic reality TV star

Roll over, tickle our bellies, and play dead,
Or maybe, just maybe, We may bite.

_{Image from Pixabay}

This Old House

This decaying house
The largest on the block
Once admired by all
Now falling into disrepair
Rotting from the inside out

What seemed like advantage
An accident of location and resources
A place for a grand experiment
Is now seen as hubris and folly
There are better houses now
Even to those who live here

Clinging to fantasies of an age gone past
When windows were clean and bright
But cracked windows still let in the light
And squeaking brittle doors still open and close
Yet they can break at anytime
And trap those within or without

To be made great again
A house requires strong foundations
Rights, not privileges that wax and wain
With each new landlord
Nobody boasts about freedom
in this house anymore

The carpet smells of mildew
And pipes all rattle and rust
An infrastructure collapsing through a lack of understanding and care
But sure, let’s cut the rent for the penthouse tenants
When the only thing that trickles down is piss

The people across the hall were disappeared last night
No longer welcome or protected
See what complaining about the rats gets you
The Super is just following orders he says
But that did not work at Nuremberg
And it shouldn’t work now

This house is a fire hazard
A death trap waiting to happen
Cold winds blow throughout
And all the landlord cares about is the neighbors
The neighbors who now laugh and pity us
With a mixture of fear and disappointment

Nobody visits this house anymore
They are warned to stay away
And those with cards of green don’t dare leave
Because privileges don’t apply with these landlords
Or find yourself renditioned to a secret basement
Somehow, somewhere

But from my tiny corner of this house
I refuse to be quiet
Even if it means losing my place
I’m here to poke the bear
With words and white middle-class privilege
I stand on the right side of history
And not just of this house

Come and get me you fucks.

_{Image by Oskars Zvejs from Pixabay}

U.I.E.

Uniformity
Imbalance
And Exclusion

Is this really what we want?
Is this really who we are?
What we have become?

To dismiss

Diversity
Equity
And Inclusion

And turn it into a thought terminating cliche

Perfect for those who can’t spell D.E.I.
Or understand that woke means awake

Although; “the belief there are systemic injustices in American society and the need to address them.”
The definition of woke given by Ron DeSantis’ general council in a Florida court room, works pretty well for me too

Do we really want to call this a virus?
Cancel culture, identity politics, left vs. right
These are just distractions from what we don’t talk about
From what we are supposed to be immune from

Class

It has always been about class
It has always been about a return to serfdom
The creation of caste system
A technocratic feudalism

This is not rolling back the years
This is the systematic dismantling of the idea of a dream
Sure a dream sold and marketed
fought over and clamored for
But still a dream that most of us bought into

This does not end well
Nazism never does

There is no Republican Party anymore
There is just MAGA
The Democrats are cowed and neutered
Cloaking themselves in the flag and the next election

As our society burns down around them

Nobody is coming to save us

There is no heroic savior

Our culture has shaped us to believe that it takes someone extraordinary to affect change
A hero,
A prince or princess
A chosen one
That it takes special powers
Training
A unique past

But it doesn’t
It takes people

People affect change
People make resistances
People overthrow dictators
People make revolutions
People decide what kind of society they want to live in

It takes us

It takes diversity
Equity
And inclusion

Because it takes all of us.

_{Image by Hubert de Thé from Pixabay}