Now is the glitter of our disco tent
made somewhat rummer by this body work,
and all the clowns that blathered in the House
in the deep bottom of our income burrowed.
Now are our boroughs bound with various dearths,
our bruised arts buggered up for monuments.
Our State Allowance changed to moral beatings,
our dismal merchants to delighted treasurers.
Some vintage war will soothe the Bank account,
and now, instead of letting babies feed,
we knight those swinish, faecal advertizers,
and lumber numbly in New Labour's chain-gang
for the lifeless hoarding of the loot.
See also Millennium Dome in THE FULLER MAP.
© Paul Taylor 2001