For a rabbit, with a stoat
And a scream across a cornfield
As incisors sink in throat
Then a shambles by the brambles
With a twitching in the straw
Where the fieldmice are frozen
In the stubble flecked with gore.
An elephant at Woburn Park
Looked frankly at his interviewer
"Well Melvyn," said the pachyderm,
"The openings are fewer
And painting in safari parks
Keeps elephants in Art today.
But still I find I'm better placed
Than are my feral cousins, say.
I dash these simple abstracts off
Which sell for fifty quid a go
The tourists seem to like them
And the Tate are hinting at a show
But though I feel my earlier work
Was grittier and more sincere
My dung won't win a Turner Prize
At least not for a second year."
Promoters suing Cornwall
For losses at eclipse?
May just as well sue bookies
For passing dodgy tips.
But how d'you sue a county?
Its clifftops, clouds and rocks?
Perhaps I could sue Essex
For Escorts and white socks.
Blame it on poor Tony Blair,
No sooner has he gone away
Than accusations fill the air
About his Tuscan holiday
And quite apart from all of this
The horsy set are in a bait
About the ragwort running wild
At Chequers, on the Bucks estate.
Now what do they expect of him,
Leave Cherie, kids and well-earned break
Roll up his sleeves on getting home
And set to work with scythe and rake?
"Drink laws should be more flexible."
Well, yes indeed, I quite agree.
It might well save my Easter speech
When foreign friends come out with me
It starts off with: "Look get that one down
I'll line two up with chasers then."
And ends up with: "Not Good Friday though,
That's like a Sunday. Half-past ten."
A street named after Billy Bragg?
in Dagenham? How very sweet.
Let others go where Essex leads
Now what about a Hawkwind St?
A stroll down Johnny Rotten Row
Or Bonehead Walk might be as pleasant
Passing Buzzcock Boulevard
To cut through Butthole Surfer Crescent,
A pint or two in Meatloaf Drive
As gently staggering home again
We trip along Syd Barrett Way
Collapsing in Keith Richards LaneReuse content