Comment: The Weekly Muse

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The Independent Culture
November rides and all the skies

Are dirty swabs of cotton wool.

St Martin's Little Summer comes

And leaves the leaf-mould ditches full.

A rheumy-eyed old soldier sees

Through brazier smoke across the yard

A skirmish in the firethorn trees

As starling units go in hard.

Now cannabis: the Lords progress,

The trials have met with some success.

It helps glaucoma and MS

But leaves your memory in a mess...

What was I saying back then? Oh yes,

It leaves your memory... I digress.

But let's not be too cavalier,

For even if a breakthrough's near

You shouldn't compromise a peer

By asking if he's tried the gear.

The mane of hair, the killer pout -

She's Jagger's daughter without a doubt.

At five foot nine and just fourteen

She wants to join the fashion scene;

But Daddy's rather less than keen

That she should be a catwalk queen.

All kind of perils wait out there

For young girls who are unaware,

Not least the old Lotharios

Who date the models after shows.

So here's a deal that she could do

To barter with the old yahoo:

Go up to Dad and say one thing:

"I won't pose... if you don't sing."

And no cure for the common cold:

The virus has a stranglehold -

About five million up the spout -

And long research has failed to rout

The blocked-up nose, the aching head

And bogroll underneath the bed.

The Beast of Brent or Mayor Ken?

Those very nice young Labour men

Are stepping up covert attacks

To stop his wagon in its tracks.

The Millbank Dalek intercedes

To say what London really needs.

Be careful, cherubs, how you spin:

You might let Jeffrey Archer in.

Now Ms Lewinsky meets the press

With raven hair and flouncy dress,

A dyed pink poodle by her side.

The tabloid boys - no easy ride -

Ask, "What about the wacky hound?"

The poodle says, "Bill sent her round."