Weekly Muse

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Chiantishire, Chiantishire -

Or Tuscany, the proper name -

The middle classes stay away

And claim it isn't quite the same.

I've never been there, wouldn't know.

It's not the sort of place I go.

Polenta, sun-dried toms and oil...

No, Dunwich is the place to be.

Just me, the ghosts, the seagulls,

Some wind-dried chips, a cup of tea,

The half-imagined tolling

Of the church bells undersea,

Some Adnams for a gargle

In the hedgerow-scented night

And not a single lap-top

Or a Gap-clad kid in sight.

You voters who are "marginal"

May soon pick up your telephone

To find our PM on the line,

A one-to-one all of your own:

"Well, hi! My name is Tony, right?

Remember me? This may seem odd,

But had you thought of voting La-"

"You got me out the bath, you sod!"

"Well, hey, and that's terrific! But

I wondered how you'd vote today?"

"I've never heard of Tony Wright.

I'm soaking wet. Now go away."

Experienced detectives

Back on the case once more,

The Regans and the Carters

We used to know of yore,

The "shall I break his leg, guv?" type,

Quite useful in its way,

Though not the sort of image

Which the force projects today.

Retrained in Nineties manners,

Those veterans they've picked

Must learn to say, "Good day, sir,"

Not, "Right, you slag, you're nicked!"

Now here's a simple slow-ball,

So let's see if you can catch:

If a motor car's a matchbox

And its driver is a match,

And the matchbox isn't moving

Owing to surpluses of stocks,

Might you put the single matches

All together in one box?

Now applying this to drivers -

And I know this sounds insane -

We could solve the transport problem

With a bus or, say, a train.

Though enforcement would be


And initially expensive,

The results would be amazing

And the benefits extensive.

So they boot the ball to Prescott

And expect him to begin it

With his wrists tied to his ankles.

Good game, innit?