Weekly Muse

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The Independent Culture
Windows wide, the dog days loll

Across a parched and yellow land

When Sirius rises with the sun

And sleep is so much contraband

To smuggle through the stifled night

In dribs and drabs of cooler hours

When all the stars lay laughing down,

Mugged by madcap meteor showers.

A tremor through Millbank HQ.

What is that howl that rends the air?

A shadow skulks across the Thames:

The fangs, the claws, the sprouting hair.

Beware the beast who holds Brent East!

The Blairites shudder, scuttle round

To stop the Werewolf's bid for mayor:

A "silver bullet" must be found.

They fret away the fear-filled night,

Attempt to find a way to spike him.

Problem with the Werewolf is,

So many people seem to like him,

And travellers on the ailing Tube

Recall that London of their youth

As cheaper, fun, traversible,

And put it down to Ken, in truth,

Amphibian-loving left-wing wag

Whom Thatcher had to shift by force.

Werewolf for Mayor? Too much to bear

For friends of Mr Blair, of course.

"Hey, Bog-breath! Come on, up you get!"

Whacked out by heat, my dog looked

dead.

"It's time to do your passport form."

"What, now?" the grumpy collie said.

"Yes, now. And can we hurry up?

Then next year, you can go abroad."

Although the charge - two hundred

pounds -

Is more than I can quite afford,

We'll save a bit in kennel fees.

Passports for Pets. A sound idea.

The dog lay down. "Yeah, right," he said.

"Just leave some grub. I'm staying

here."

Some B&B guests up from town,

I read in Thursday's rural news,

Have asked if farmers might reduce

The volume of those clucks and moos.

"Ah, that'll be the hens and cows.

The bleating noise? Oh, they're the

sheep.

There aren't so many of them now.

I'm sorry they've disturbed your sleep.

But since you're up, please stroll around,

Though mind the stuff strewn on the

ground...

I'm very sorry. Yes, agreed.

A giant poop-scoop's what we need."

"Arthritis sexually acquired,

Or SARA as the scientists say,

A type of microscopic bug,

Is blighting soccer players today;

And when your favourite football god

Is suffering from a swollen knee,

The chances are it isn't strain,

It's post-match promiscuity.

I couldn't give you any names:

We doctors aren't allowed to speak.

But why not tune into the games

To see who's limping worst this week?"

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