All Cosy

Our economy's fixers insist
That no chance at a profit be missed;
But a distance too great
From their Whitehall bed-mate
Could give them a pain in the wrist.

Our dear corporations, poor things,
Cannot hang about in the wings.
Up close they'll be let,
So they no longer get
Fatigue from the pulling of strings.

The glorious day may soon come
When the world is no longer so glum:
No ministers fear
For their future career
With a corporate hand up their bum!

Lobyer Shilley