And starches litter overnight.
A sullen morning slopes away
To Finsbury Park from Harringay
And London's grey, London's grey.
But good news for computers:
The Pope confers his blessing.
A priest puts in for overtime,
A nerd comes out confessing:
"Father I have sinned. My thoughts
Are lustful and profane.
I try to cast them from my mind
But back they come again.
Her cut-glass voice excites me
With undertones so soft.
It's hard for me to say this...
I ache for Lara Croft."
"The devil tempts us all my son,"
The priest says, "Even me.
I'm down to play the bishop.
When we get Tomb Raider III."
The latest buzzword's "sexy".
Well, someone had to choose it,
And this time it was Labour,
So now they're going to use it:
He massaged at her figure
And threw it on the table,
He tore her half-percent off -
"You're sexy when you're stable.
But even though we're gasping
I think that we should both wait.
It's just... I've got this problem
Pertaining to my growth rate."
The cod is not a sexy fish
If languishing upon a dish
But when the thing begins to breed
It's very different indeed.
In fact the mating Gadidae
Do so much grunting in the day
That Norway's naval sonar sound
Is useless on its spawning ground
Where spectrum-analyser screens
Find randy fish, not submarines.
How strange if it should come to be
An act of cod starts World War III.
In spite of looming shortages
It seems I stand alone -
The only man in England left
Without a mobile phone.
The racket on my railway trips
Has gone from bad to worse:
User, we have never met,
But know you have my curse.Reuse content