The Weekly Muse

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The Independent Culture
As soft September drizzle

Fell gently all around

Two soaking dogs regarded

Their Essex training ground.

As handlers from the police force

Marked papers and made notes

The rookie bloodhound sniffers

Shook drops from saggy coats.

A bloodhound asked his colleague,

"You bin long in the job?"

His doleful friend informed him,

"Transfer from Customs mob.

It didn't have the glamour

Of sniffin' for The Plod.

I heard they were recruiting

And wanted back on squad.

They ditched the old Alsatians

And we're a safer bet;

Since one fell down a staircase

The rest have joined the Met.'

But many miles from Essex

Just off the Breton coast

The King of Patagonia

Raised flags and drank a toast,

Declared a British islet

His latest pied-a-terre

And then informed the tabloids

Whose editors asked, "Where?"

But as the puzzled media

Scanned maps to find the rock

The news came in of Railtrack's

Proposed millennium clock,

The Forth rail bridge the venue,

One, one, two-K the date,

Approximately running

Er... sixteen minutes late.

Whatever the opinions

Of Patagonian kings

The island of Ibiza

Is where it really swings.

There's Ecstasy, Viagra,

Amphetamines, cocaine,

Booze and unprotected sex,

And that's just on the plane.

The poor Norwegian PM

Is suffering from depression

While everywhere but Worthing

Fears Russian-style recession.

The News at Ten is ending -

That's right after the break,

And finally... The bear cub.

Who won't. Be home. For cake.