The Curmudgeon


Monday, March 21, 2016

The Mystery Fat Cat

with apologies to T S Eliot

The Chancellor's a fatty-cat who wobbles as he goes;
You would know him if you saw him, by his little todger nose.
His septum's hollowed out with coke, his beady eyes are dull;
His face is often empty, but his belly's always full.
He likes to hector at the proles and order them to work,
And then to sit and stroke himself to an orgasmic smirk.

The Chancellor, the Chancellor, there's no-one like the Chancellor,
The women's-shelter closer and the cancer-treatment canceller!
At widows and at orphans he will press his bold attack -
Or anyone who doesn't have the income to fight back;
But when you want to know why there are tax cuts and to spare -
Ah, there's the wonder of the thing - the Chancellor's not there!

And if the council's broke and there are potholes in the road,
And medics flee the country for a healthier abode,
Or when the greenhouse gases start to poison all the air
And when the roof is leaking that he promised to repair,
It's useless to inquire, because the Chancellor's not there!
A flunkey has a burble, but the Chancellor's not there!

The Chancellor, the Chancellor, there's no one like the Chancellor;
When buggering a budget, such a filling of his pantsellor!
He'd never fuck a pig; that isn't his sort of affair,
But when the budget's buggered, then the Chancellor's not there!

And they say that all the Ministers most famed for their capacity
Of glistening and gloating in their smugness and sebacity
Are nothing more than agents for the human deficit:
The Treasury's black hole and grabby, greasy little squit.

Pip Cutter


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