The Weekly Muse

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The dark days down to Christmas drag

The stubborn lime leaves from the bough,

By black canals the soggy hours

Hang heavy on the towpaths now.

In ermine whites and Santa reds

With sawn-off beehives stuck on heads

(You wonder where they go at nights)

The Lords may lose their ancient rights,

And Silver-Sticks-In-Waiting too -

Then how will he and Black Rod do

Attending unemployment queues

And going to Restart interviews?

Forget that sad old Playboy list

Of female icons. One they missed -

The girl your Indie poet loves -

Jane Couch, the goddess of the gloves.

Yes, that's the type of girl for me,

She's handsome, strong and sinewy:

A sexy look, a great left hook,

I wouldn't care if she can't cook.

A lovers' dispute I suppose

May well lead to a broken nose

But I could wear the thing with pride

The Fleetwood tigress by my side.

Her picture's on my garret wall...

I tremble and await her call.

Just take the cash and throw it in -

Programme 5: Short wash/quick spin.

Those stubborn stains and musty smells

On money made by drug cartels

Are banished almost overnight

And profits come up dazzling white.

The City Law Firm Launderette:

"We haven't lost an item yet."

The "headline indicators" are

We drink too much, we Brits, by far

And on the Happiness Index

Drink's several points ahead of sex.

The sickness, fights and blood that's spilt,

Accompanied by dreadful guilt,

And then of course, my throbbing head...

I'll have to take up drink instead.

In spite of what the planners say

Delays could blight the Year 2K,

So be prepared when you leave home

To swim the last bit to the Dome.

The Jubilee Line schedule fails

And strikes may drive it off the rails.

So out of solidarity

I work to rule in sympathy,

For safety reasons, on this rhyme.

Therefore, I can't complete on

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