The Weekly Muse

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The Independent Culture
At Michaelmas the sun retires,

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.

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