From Colchester and back again
By Super Apex on the rails
Across the lumpy counterpane
Of half-familiar western hills
Takes longer than perhaps it might.
At Reading Town the carriage fills
As more embark but none alight.
Among this crowd of "customers"
An Indie reader and his wife.
She limps, walks with a stick, insists
The journey isn't worth the strife,
Suggesting that they both get off.
The train is over-full, replete,
But luckily some dodgy poet
Stands up to volunteer his seat.
Now Mr Prescott, when you do
Decide to spank the railway boys,
Don't simply fine them 50p
And hint you'll take away their toys,
But hit the bandits good and hard.
They're architects of misery
And quite apart from all of this
They drain our productivity.
Spring is sprung, the grass is riz,
And scientists say the problem is
The season's earlier than it was
Some 30 years ago, because
The world pumps out more CO2
Than prudent planets ought to do.
So why won't we forsake the car?
(See previous verses etc, blah...)
"Jogging makes the brain grow bigger":
Gives the hippocampi vigour,
Guards against the inner dunce...
Maybe scribes should try it once.
Better, though, to keep on writing -
Makes you vain but more exciting,
Witness Julie Burchill's quill.
Loved her then. I love her still.
I've asked her to the running track.
Alas, she hasn't called me back.
"Good afternoon, Sir Smashem Uppe*,
We're having tea, do take a cup.
Your neighbour claims the charges are
You've damaged his Mercedes car.
As Purley's police we've had to bring 'em
In the name of Bernard Ingham.
Pray don't apologise, old chap.
A very trivial mishap.
Good job it's this late in the day,
Or what might Mrs Thatcher say?"
* With apologies to EV Rieu.Reuse content