The Weekly Muse

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The Independent Culture
Rusty in the sycamores

The spinners dawdle on the bough,

In windless days and cider haze

The sozzled wasps are tetchy now,

While in their Norfolk forest home

Sciurus vulgaris (squirrels, reds),

Well into summer's injury time,

Peruse the news and shake their heads:

"It's all these greys," a rodent said.

"They're oversexed and overfed,

They carry pox, they're violent, rude,

They take our jobs and nick our food,

And what would happen if your son

Announced he'd like to marry one?

It's you who'd have to take the flak.

I reckon they should send 'em back."

Not far away a father hid,

An outlaw since he'd whacked his kid.

Dead keen on human rights, his son

Had hauled his dad to court, and won.

The ruling that the judges made

Was that a ten-grand fine be paid.

Considering this regimen

My dad must owe me millions, then.

New socialism? Well, not quite.

From Mr Darling, Wednesday night:

"Money spent on schools and health

Will rise in future with our wealth,

So get a pension, don't be late,

You can't depend upon the state."

Which means that if you're old and ill

Your rulers won't pick up the bill.

I pondered on that one in bed,

Since that was what the Tories said.

New government - same cock and bull.

Darling, you were wonderful!

Abroad, the fearsome Hurricane

Georges snaps off a weathervane;

At home, a rustle in the hedge

Denotes his brother, Light Breeze Reg.

But quite a different type of wind

Blows in the media: "Ah have sinned."

As Stepford pushes sense aside

To watch Bill Clinton crucified.

Backstreet surgeons! Here's a chance!

Bored with doing breast implants?

Steady scalpel? Perfect vision?

Try your hand at circumcision!

The NHS may hand to you

Those cases which they will not do -

And lucrative are breasts and lips,

But circumcision gets the tips.

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