The Weekly Muse

The blackberries and dog-rose hips

Grow swollen by the damp

And tremble in northwesterlies

By Wandlebury Camp,

And as the gale on Gog-Magog

Blows south to Babraham College

We join a Cambridge scientist

Who passes us this knowledge:

"A newborn lamb brought up by goats

Or newborn goat, vice versa,

May grow to love his foster-mum

More than his own precursor.

The upshot of this strange research

And ultimate conclusion

Supports the work of Sigmund Freud

On Oedpial confusion."

In other words, men go for girls

Much more than any others

Who have a thing about them which

Reminds them of their mothers.

So could this be the reason why

The women that I choose

Always wear WAAF uniforms,

Gas masks and clumpy shoes?

According to a Mori poll

Our nation's taste in art

Is comfortable, like Constable

(Cue shot of rustic cart).

The people in the provinces

Know what they like, no doubt,

So objects such as piles of bricks

Or pickled sheep are out.

The TUC are furious,

They rail and rage and hector -

An iron hand upon the purse

Afflicts the public sector,

Unless you're reappointed

As Ofsted Chief Inspector

Or hold the magic title

"Millennium Dome Director".

The National Year of Reading

Is happening, as of now,

And should you wish to try it

It's one stop after Slough.

As mentioned in the media

The trains are still a mess

So, late for Geri's auction,

I failed to get that dress,

The union jack creation

Which barely hid her bum,

It would have done my girlfriend

(Who looks quite like my mum).