oh oh naughty corner coming up...move over Bob
The Red QueenHark! all the subjects of Her Majesty,
(There on her throne in Spendalot she sits)
Doth thou expect to breathe the air for free?
From this day hence we shall impose a fee,
A tax on gas that thou can’t even see,
That useful plant food industry emits.
Thou must admit this is a brilliant ploy,
To tax the very air we breath to live.
Methinks her subjects this will sure annoy,
Methinks their confidence it will destroy,
For air’s the one free thing they all enjoy,
Perhaps our noble Queen is but a spiv.
We’re told that she will not Welsh on her bets,
And she will gamble all on this one tax.
Perhaps this jewel in Spendalot forgets,
That former King Sir Kevin has regrets,
(While round the world on aeroplanes he jets)
of carbon gas, of boats, and of earwax.
But all this spending has the surplus slashed.
Our good Queen must from somewhere get the cash.
The cupboard’s empty and the market’s crashed.
With half of her supporters she has clashed.
If she goes to the people she’ll be thrashed.
Her reign has seen her Kingdom turned to trash.
Sir Kevin mounted on his trusty steed
Is waiting in the wings to hear the call.
He may be just a soft and pasty weed,
But if required he’s sure to do the deed,
No matter how her majesty may plead,
And from her throne our Red Queen then will fall.
But even so the court will still be red.
To hell these socialists will us consign.
The serfs will still the same garbage be fed,
And all the foreign money will have fled;
The Kingdom to disaster’s being led,
So shoveth new tax where the sun don’t shine.
© Dennis N. O'Brien, 2012
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