The starlings muster on the wires,
And conkers burnished by the rains
Lie crushed by cars in muddy lanes.
The shiny streets are wet with leaves
As sparrows bicker in the eaves;
A widow maudlin with her gin
Hears old October sneaking in.
And in suburban Hertfordshire
The avenues are fraught with fear:
The Beast of Barnet might appear,
Though what it is, is not so clear.
A type of cat? Perhaps a puma?
Unconfirmed as yet. A rumour.
Send the Mets to take it out
If public safety is in doubt -
CS gas, and then a clout
Of t-shaped truncheon on the snout.
If this fails to quiet the creature
Train it as a "Superteacher":
One term and an Ofsted shakedown
Should ensure a nervous breakdown.
So where is Middle England then?
Lead me to this holy grail
Whose shopping is its sacrament
And bible is the Daily Mail;
Take me to its shining malls
Through Grecian colonnaded halls;
Drape my loins at Marks & Sparks,
Teach me how a four-wheel parks,
Lead me to your kitchen centre,
Show me how to cook polenta...
If I die before I've been
Buy my shroud from Racing Green.
This week's brilliant timing gong?
Another old familiar song -
You'll know the chorus and refrains -
Trundle forward, Virgin Trains!
Late for Labour's Conference run,
Arriving once it had begun,
Could only fuel the great debate
On how to stop our trains being late.
What's the Hedge Fund?
Wish I knew!
Is it privet, box or yew?
Will it buffer profiteers?
No. It's buying and selling shears.
The Working Hours limit set
Is now in force, lest we forget,
And even poets have no say.
So, good day.Reuse content