The Weekly Muse
By Martin Newell
As August turned the meadows
To pre-autumnal hues
In quiet west country woodland
Some badgers watched the news
"They'll gas twelve thousand of us
Within the next five years
What kind of bastards are they?"
A brock broke down in tears.
His older wiser comrade
Who'd seen it all before
Said, "Courage Badger, courage.
The public who abhor
Our slaughter in such numbers
Are bound to make a stink
And anyway our killers
Are busy with those mink."
Meanwhile in rural Suffolk
A sculptor won five grand
For eighteen rotten elm trees
Displayed on grazing land
The Arts Council assessor
Awarding him the sum
Was cornered by a farmer
Who beckoned him to come:
"Yew reck'n yew know aart, boy?
Wal' I wun't disagree...
I've got this pile o'cowshit
Per'aps yew'd like t'see..."
With Torrington, James Kelman
And Irvine Welsh dismissed
By Donald Dewar, denouncing
Their books as "workerist"
One wonders how that yobbo
Called Burns, behind the plough
Who wrote in lowland dialect
Would fare with Dewar now.
The Cabinet's full of dunces
Clare Short is in the frame
Chris Smith, Nick Brown are others.
Or that's what Mensa claim
For Mensa can assess you
But should you be in doubt
They'll put you in the picture
(The Sun will take you out).
More tension in the White House
The President in shock
His questioner relentless
The press outside en bloc:
"The actual words I used sir,"
Claimed Clinton from the dock,
"Were: Hold my calls, Lewinsky
And: Will you set my clock?"
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