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The Weekly Muse

By Martin Newell

As August turned the meadows

To pre-autumnal hues

In quiet west country woodland

Some badgers watched the news

"They'll gas twelve thousand of us

Within the next five years

What kind of bastards are they?"

A brock broke down in tears.

His older wiser comrade

Who'd seen it all before

Said, "Courage Badger, courage.

The public who abhor

Our slaughter in such numbers

Are bound to make a stink

And anyway our killers

Are busy with those mink."

Meanwhile in rural Suffolk

A sculptor won five grand

For eighteen rotten elm trees

Displayed on grazing land

The Arts Council assessor

Awarding him the sum

Was cornered by a farmer

Who beckoned him to come:

"Yew reck'n yew know aart, boy?

Wal' I wun't disagree...

I've got this pile o'cowshit

Per'aps yew'd like t'see..."

With Torrington, James Kelman

And Irvine Welsh dismissed

By Donald Dewar, denouncing

Their books as "workerist"

One wonders how that yobbo

Called Burns, behind the plough

Who wrote in lowland dialect

Would fare with Dewar now.

The Cabinet's full of dunces

Clare Short is in the frame

Chris Smith, Nick Brown are others.

Or that's what Mensa claim

For Mensa can assess you

But should you be in doubt

They'll put you in the picture

(The Sun will take you out).

More tension in the White House

The President in shock

His questioner relentless

The press outside en bloc:

"The actual words I used sir,"

Claimed Clinton from the dock,

"Were: Hold my calls, Lewinsky

And: Will you set my clock?"