Though practical, it lacks romance
And science has moved on apace
In space-pant/hygiene interface.
If cosmonauts are cheerier
With pant-cleaning bacteria
It wasn't what I had in mind
In boyhood dreams I left behind:
"Major Tom to Ground Control -
I think these pants have got a hole"
And human cloning by next year?
A heart, a lung, a nose, an ear -
The possibilities are vast,
A real Body Shop at last:
"Don't Phone Us - We'll Clone You!
Replacement parts as good as new
Allow a fortnight at the most
And pop your details in the post."
Not everyone will think it's right,
But two in every one men might.
It's knives out for Clare Short again:
Perhaps you chaps with half a brain
Should just remember now and then
That cosying up to businessmen
Would not be foremost in her sights.
Her working brief is human rights
And smashing poorer nations' chains,
Not flogging engines, guns or planes.
Her critics in particular
Should cast a glance at Chechnya:
No houses, doctors, schools or jobs,
Just jeeploads full of well-armed yobs.
Not trustworthy? Our record charts?
Prone to manipulation?
Record company marketing
Controls the situation,
Where radio stations play the songs
To give them full support
Until the public knuckle down
And discs are duly bought.
Assuming that we're stupid,
Which they seem to take as fact,
They'll badger and cajole us
Till we buy their tawdry act.
The problem with this arrogance
Is that they're selling pap
And flies are most attracted
To the bigger piles of crap,
So lots of competition
Helps to keep them on their toes.
The issue here's the class of crap,
As Lord Lloyd Webber knows.Reuse content