The Weekly Muse

As geese wing up the estuary

And shaggy ink-caps dot the grass

The heavy-hearted lecturer

Prepares to meet his virgin class.

The sounds of students vomiting

And distant crash of broken glass

Are common at this time of year,

When all the road cones disappear

To reappear in freshers' flats

Or serve the witty boys as hats.

The Sun on Tuesday, trumpeted:

"This parrot is no more. It's dead."

But Polly ticks... a Tory ghost

Has come to haunt the Dorset coast

As Edward Heath with baleful glare

Regards Her With The Built-up Hair

And slumps in his Ikea chair

To watch the farce unfold from there

And muse on how it might have been

But for the former hatchet queen.

The watches, which they glance at now

Are running late for both somehow.

As Bournemouth bids them all goodnight

And shadows forming on the right

Warn: "Mind the Euro-bugs don't bite.

And last one out, switch off the light."

But now this service-charge affray.

The Good Food Guide says: Do Not Pay

For years I worked as restaurant staff,

So I say this on their behalf:

If one can stretch to dining out

And spreading one's largesse about

Then one should stretch a few per cent

To help one's waitress pay the rent

I'd like to take the Good Food geek

And make him work a split-shift week

Then give him ninety quid in hand

And see if he maintains his stand.

It seems that Scots prefer their books

Traditional, or so it looks

With Treasure Island shifting more

Than Welsh's tales of trying to score

Perhaps a yarn which has a blend

Of both these books might set a trend

Without attracting too much flak.

Haar Jim Lad! D'ye want some smack?

The news that my deodorant sticks

Have female hormones in the mix

Has made me feel very strange

Emasculated, prone to change

If things continue as they are

I fear I'm going to need a bra.