The Cliffs of Dover stop being white:
The teeth of England's southern coast
Are rotting quietly overnight
And disappointment will be rife
Among the tourists coming in.
Dispatch a flock of pigeons now,
And spare the heart of Vera Lynn.
It's curtains for the ruddy duck,
A waterfowl which likes to breed
With other species - so much so
That Michael Meacher feels the need
To wipe the randy creatures out,
A move that's almost guaranteed
To cause another rural row
Among the meres and river-weed
When twitchers in their anoraks,
Who hate these bronze Anatidae,
Lock horns with liberationists
On river banks each Saturday.
The "crisis of our Englishness"...
A blunt new survey rates us
As a dull and vulgar people
Whose Celtic neighbours hate us.
The Scots, the Welsh, the Irish
Make cultural advances
While all we have are hooligans,
Hugh Grant and morris dances.
Now may I say in our defence
True Englishness is subtler
And hidden deep within us
Like the passion of a butler
For the mistress in her mansion,
So it's rare that we reveal it.
But because you cannot see it
Doesn't mean we do not feel it.
Hoddle! Just the sound of it
Deserves a definition.
Hoddled by the tabloids,
Then deprived of your position.
Hoddle - used of journalists,
A good collective noun
For a pack of baying toerags
Waiting months to do you down.
New clone control is on its way,
The Government has told us so.
But even if it's put in force,
If clones escape, how do we know?
Besides, my clone will be of use
To write my stanzas if I die.
And since he's worked with me I find
I like the bloke... and so do I.