None Of Your Business: A rhyme for our times

By Beth Porter

They grow fat, they grow thin,
Greying bonce and jowly chin

Tinkle tinkle little whizz
How I wonder who you iz
In yer air-con coach so cool
Consort beside you, she’s no fool.

Will redacted; who owes whom?
Golden palaces, heffalumps in the room
It’s our dosh, though you’d hardly know it…
Unlock yer spreadsheet… I dare you to show it.

Monarchy’s madness
The planet’s at stake
Yer banquet awaits;
Corruption? Opaque!

Does he care?
Not a jot!
From soup to nuts
He’ll scoff the lot.

When at last the paperwork’s due
He’ll point his pointy finger
And put the blame on you!

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