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BY GEORGE!

The American Revolution describes the process whereby one


George was replaced by another

Though Jack has climbed his beanstalk,


Saint George his dragon slain,
Gulch-Mammon lives on happily
And myriad is his train

His belly is enormous,


Yet full it ne'er will be.
The moment luncheon's over,
It's time to start high-tea.

Gulch-Mammon's teeth are millstones


Whose grindings rarely cease.
His slightest indigestion
Is menace to our peace.

And every time he sneezes,


Things worsen, though they're bad,
And every time he belches,
The Richter Scale goes mad.

Perchance he bored with eating,


He starts to smoke and fume.
You'll always know his whereabouts.
Just watch out for his plume.

His home is just palatial,


For gold is everywhere.
His rest-room seat is golden,
A thing most choice and rare.

No one knows for certain,


The income that he draws.
Whatever you are making,
It's vastly more than yours.

There on his vast plantations,


Some kine are thin, some fat,
And many laws and statutes
Did little to change that.

Are Jack and George just sleeping,


Or are they in his pay?
Whoso may know the answer
Seems disinclined to say.

Tea, Darling? We're British.

I have a funny feeling.


It is all so unappealing.
The dollar's hit the ceiling.
This may send the markets reeling.
If the markets hit the floor,
Paul says we'll all be poor.
Oh, how beastly! What a bore!
But Peter's not so sure:

"Whenever markets crash,


it's time to make a splash,"
and, as Grandma used to say,
"There'll be another day."
It's time for an excursion,
not for worry but diversion.
Who's for cream cakes and tea in Ealing?
Earl Grey or just Darjeeling?
We'll have to mend our fences
and go easy on expenses.

On this may all agree.


It's always time for tea.

I can take it.

Pleased to meet you, how do you do?


Im your friendly neighbourhood guru.
My words are pure and gentle.
My creed most transcendental.
I free men and women
From western materialism
From anxiety and care
And every evil snare.
To accumulate great wealth
Is injurious to your health
In luxury you dine
But some dirty rotten swine
To your utmost dismay
Has taken the silver away.
I have the rare capacity
To transcend such wicked rapacity..
Free yourself from material tangles.
Let me take care of your bangles.
Beware lest a slight hesitation
Come between you and sublime meditation.

Me and my Shrink

My shrink is depressed
And Im to blame.
He cured me of anxiety
With complete success,
So I dont worry about anything,
Not even the exorbitant bills
He keeps sending me.

The Last Remaining Socialist


(apart from Bernie)

Hark! That rustling of the leaves


Makes me wobbly at the knees,
Or did I dream of Thatchers ghost
Chasing wets from post to post?

When Tony Blair bashed up Hussein,


No Robin Hood at home bought gain.
Who then yet may save the day?
Who remains to show the way?
Bill Dozer is this man, I say!
Trouser ?, Loser ,? Boozer? Hey!
What the heck's Bili Dozer?
Like Superman he flits about
cosh in hand, with mighty clout.
He is a man of iron fist,
the last remaining socialist.
He hears each worker's woeful cry:
like Joe Hill he'll never die.
When Marx will rise from Highgate's tomb,
capitalists will meet their doom.
Horn-rimmed his specs, his suit dull brown
he 'swoop like an eagle down.
He'll give each grabbing boss the boot
and share with us the ill-gotten loot.
Bill Dozer is this man, I say!
Trouzer ?, Loser ,? Boozer? Hey!
What the heck's Bili Dozer?
But if still the point you missed:
He's the last remaining socialist.

A Poem to Turn Anyone Green

I am located in a park, where I am contemplating adjacent trees.


One tree in particular has caught my attention.
With each thought I feel ever more at one with this tree.
How can I contemplate trees without becoming one?
Just think what happened to Narcissus, who turned into a
daffodil.

Or the nymph Daphne, who became a laurel tree.

What's so bad about being a tree anyway?


Is not it a good thing to put down roots?
But what about the loss of mobility that would follow?
Trees have carefree lives, though.
No taxes, rushing to work, paying bills.
On the other hand in my present state
I need not worry about woodworm, acid rain, being pruned,
woodpeckers or serving the needs of leg-lifting dogs.
And family affairs? Hmm.. Do I want my kids to be nuts?
It's all very well to branch out - in metaphoric terms, that is.

Oh, that board meeting! Its time to go.

Hey, my limbs are stiff.

I cant move my trunk. My fingers are green.


Silly thought, no one turns into a tree these days!

Aaaaahhhhh!

Swish, swish. Rustle rustle..

An Ode to Lacking Inspiration

I dont much feel like writing this poem


As there isnt that much on my mind.
No birds are a-chirping, no cattle are lowing,
But perhaps my perceptions are blind.

For lack of an alternative merit


I think now is the right time to stop.
If a poem wont work then end it
To limit the scope of the rot.