Had been eclipsed in every way.
Front pages held for other news.
The grouse must wait an extra day
While under fickle August skies,
The public's mind on other things,
The willowherb begins to die
As autumn calls her from the wings.
Thirty years ago this week
The Beatles posed on Abbey Road
And since that day the tourists come
To tax the poor old Green Cross Code
Beyond belief, by traipsing back
And forth across the zebra bars
As Jean-Paul, Jorg and Rico prat
Around in front of hooting cars.
A showbiz guy from way-back-when,
That paragon of charm and tact,
The Duke of Edinburgh appears
To cheer them with his peerless act.
A song, a smile, a ready quip,
But people have heard quite enough.
He needs some new material;
I've dashed him off some current stuff:
What is it that's a witless, racist
Mix of English, German, Greek,
Produces nothing, spends a lot,
And makes the papers every week;
Creates a quite disastrous mess,
And shouldn't really say too much?
Well, I don't know. You'll have to guess.
What do you reckon to it, sir?
I've got a million - just say when.
My rates are highly treasonable...
Oh well. Bang goes my knighthood then.
John Major says that "Thatcher
Was intolerable". No, surely not?
They must have misconstrued him
In that interview the Beeb have got.
"Incessant plotting... drove a wedge
Between them both". Must be a lie.
The gentle former doyenne?
No. She wouldn't hurt a fly.
A brothel with a difference -
Its customers are female -
Has opened in South Africa:
They've been in touch by e-mail.
For British chaps who're interested,
They've told me what it's like.
Although the work's demanding,
They've never had a strike.
The training can be arduous
But once you've got your grade
You're working to a rhythm
And overtime's well-paid.
You clock on in the morning,
Get started straightaway,
Though knocking-off time varies
And tends to last all day.
The tips can be enormous
But subject to delay.
Address is: House of Spartacus,
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