The Weekly Muse

A chunk of Beachy Head falls down,

The Cliffs of Dover stop being white:

The teeth of England's southern coast

Are rotting quietly overnight

And disappointment will be rife

Among the tourists coming in.

Dispatch a flock of pigeons now,

And spare the heart of Vera Lynn.

It's curtains for the ruddy duck,

A waterfowl which likes to breed

With other species - so much so

That Michael Meacher feels the need

To wipe the randy creatures out,

A move that's almost guaranteed

To cause another rural row

Among the meres and river-weed

When twitchers in their anoraks,

Who hate these bronze Anatidae,

Lock horns with liberationists

On river banks each Saturday.

The "crisis of our Englishness"...

A blunt new survey rates us

As a dull and vulgar people

Whose Celtic neighbours hate us.

The Scots, the Welsh, the Irish

Make cultural advances

While all we have are hooligans,

Hugh Grant and morris dances.

Now may I say in our defence

True Englishness is subtler

And hidden deep within us

Like the passion of a butler

For the mistress in her mansion,

So it's rare that we reveal it.

But because you cannot see it

Doesn't mean we do not feel it.

Hoddle! Just the sound of it

Deserves a definition.

Hoddled by the tabloids,

Then deprived of your position.

Hoddle - used of journalists,

A good collective noun

For a pack of baying toerags

Waiting months to do you down.

New clone control is on its way,

The Government has told us so.

But even if it's put in force,

If clones escape, how do we know?

Besides, my clone will be of use

To write my stanzas if I die.

And since he's worked with me I find

I like the bloke... and so do I.