Comment: Weekly Muse

Down some haunted puddled lane

The moon hangs out on dirty nights

And stabs the cyclist in the eye

Between the drunken bouts of rain

A rural band compounds the crime

The nearby cows on bass trombones

And distant sheep for saxophones

All in the sodden summertime.

Unshaven, oval face set hard

In concentration.

Impossible three months ago

The thought

That such a concert

To a fractured nation

Ever might be played.

But bow in hand

He takes the stand.

Nigel Kennedy/Belgrade.

And this is good.

Since sharps and flats

Make better balm than diplomats.

"Tune in, turn on, drop out, sneak off.

Then go and tell the FBI."

Leary this and Leary that

The sixties guru, groovy guy

Was all I heard when I was young

From prematurely-bearded stiffs

Who lolled around on mattresses

And got their chicks to roll the spliffs

A slightly different type of grass

Was what the man turned out to be

So never trust a hippy, kids.

Now... where's my Moby Grape LP?

If your passport's overdue

Then join a queue which gives to you

A ticket for another queue

Which only lasts a day or two

But if you've nothing else to do

Then why not come and stand about?

It builds the British character

And brings the Dunkirk spirit out

The reason for this misery

Is our old friend, Efficiency

He and his blushing bride-to-be

That gorgeous, pouting tart, IT

Have modernised the world for you

Go on, you love it. `Course you do.

It's why you're standing in the wet

And cannot have your passport yet.

But never mind, there's just a chance

If you're marooned in Petty France

Ann Widdecombe will hove in sight

That stately galleon of the right

To ply her gentle charms, so blue

Now there's a way to clear a queue

Sponsored by Viagra then:

A rugby team from Wales

It lifts the lads' libido

And it boosts Viagra's sales

A hurried bath and home to bed

Their wives won't cast aspersions

The after-match result just in:

Ten tries and nine conversions