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."