And shaggy ink-caps dot the grass
The heavy-hearted lecturer
Prepares to meet his virgin class.
The sounds of students vomiting
And distant crash of broken glass
Are common at this time of year,
When all the road cones disappear
To reappear in freshers' flats
Or serve the witty boys as hats.
The Sun on Tuesday, trumpeted:
"This parrot is no more. It's dead."
But Polly ticks... a Tory ghost
Has come to haunt the Dorset coast
As Edward Heath with baleful glare
Regards Her With The Built-up Hair
And slumps in his Ikea chair
To watch the farce unfold from there
And muse on how it might have been
But for the former hatchet queen.
The watches, which they glance at now
Are running late for both somehow.
As Bournemouth bids them all goodnight
And shadows forming on the right
Warn: "Mind the Euro-bugs don't bite.
And last one out, switch off the light."
But now this service-charge affray.
The Good Food Guide says: Do Not Pay
For years I worked as restaurant staff,
So I say this on their behalf:
If one can stretch to dining out
And spreading one's largesse about
Then one should stretch a few per cent
To help one's waitress pay the rent
I'd like to take the Good Food geek
And make him work a split-shift week
Then give him ninety quid in hand
And see if he maintains his stand.
It seems that Scots prefer their books
Traditional, or so it looks
With Treasure Island shifting more
Than Welsh's tales of trying to score
Perhaps a yarn which has a blend
Of both these books might set a trend
Without attracting too much flak.
Haar Jim Lad! D'ye want some smack?
The news that my deodorant sticks
Have female hormones in the mix
Has made me feel very strange
Emasculated, prone to change
If things continue as they are
I fear I'm going to need a bra.Reuse content