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 onReuse content