The Weekly Muse

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New Year, new you? It isn't quite.

The waistband feels a tad too tight,

The head is fugged, the wallet's thin

And resolutions clog the bin.

That's when the meter men appear

With taxman bringing up the rear.

Best thing to do is stay in bed

And send your clone to work instead.

It's chaos on the trading floor...

A little bundle at the door

Of kisses, curses, custard pies -

Midst mingled aahs and skeptic sighs

The baby euro's trundled in

While Britain grumbles at the din.

A Saxon chieftain and his horse

Lay undisturbed in chalky ground

For fourteen hundred years or so

And slept the centuries away.

Much later, over fens and farms

Around the Suffolk air force base,

Another German warrior flew

Then fell to earth and lost the day.

"Well met," the Saxon soldier said.

"We've changed a bit since oxen carts

But not so fast you'd notice it.

They take their time around these parts

Where warriors younger now than you

Still gird themselves for battle zones.

Lie down, young flier. The day may come

When men will marvel at your bones."

Impeachment. It's a curious word,

Most often found with President

Confusing what he said he meant

When evidence is later heard.

I used to think, some years ago,

Impeachment meant "to place in peach,

Pushed into pulp to fill a breech".

It doesn't. (Bet he'd like it though.)

And we who have survived the flu

Without a call to 999

Have got some stern research to do

Regarding health claims made for wine.

They say it perks the brain-cells up.

How interesting: now where's my cup?

So it's official: in-flight food

Is gastronomic guck from hell,

Congealed, fibrous, leathery,

Synthetic, overcooked as well.

Does Egon Ronay tell the truth?

Do Virgin trains run out of diesel?

They do - like I run out of space.

Now pop next door and read The Weasel.