A brickie on the scaffold sees
Through early mist across the fields
A light-green haze upon the trees
And further off, forsythia
To stain the distant gardens gold
When aches and pains will settle down
And mornings won't seem half as cold.
Was Betjeman a wartime spy?
A new biography claims so.
A few unpublished stanzas here
For readers to judge yes or no:
Low-shot light of a sharp December?
Put poetic pens away,
Haul the hated Morse transmitter
Over to the window bay,
Contact the Colonial Office,
Give them what I've gleaned today
Skulking round in social circles
Here in Dublin doing my bit
Working as a press attache.
Glamorous, duckie? Not one whit.
Most of us are merely mushrooms,
Left in the dark and fed on... dit
Derdit derdit derdit dit dit...
So Hague has sacked his spin doctor,
Just jettisoned the wretched man
Who, if you think about his job,
Was usher for a lame pavane
And caller for a clubfoot clan
Who can't remember how to dance.
It's not surprising that he failed,
The poor sod never stood a chance.
The famous Terry's Chocolate Orange
Rhymes with something, I've no doubt,
But since the trade war carries on
American must go without
Such luxuries as the above,
Which seems to me appalling luck
And all because we won't accept
Their beefsteak-laced-with-hormone guck.
Now if this thing should escalate,
As is the way with some embargoes,
Maybe we could stretch the ban
To certain of their other cargoes:
Ricki Lake, McDollar's ads,
A tendency to litigate,
TV trials, Lewinsky smiles,
A host of stupid words I hate -
Thatspooky? Whatsyerstarsign? Yo!
But hey! I think they're rilly great... Not.Reuse content