IT was Christmas Day in the workhouse
The parish guardian searched his soul
And grudgingly fed the fire
With a second lump of coal
Hands gelled and faces covered,
In a socially-distanced line
The paupers sat at the tables
For this was the hour to dine.
The Cabinet and their flunkeys,
Not embarrassed in the least,
Arrived in chauffeured limousines
To watch the wretches feast.
They’d lunched well at the Savoy Grill
On honeyed ham, thick-carved
And had brought a bag of leftovers
To distribute to the starved.
The paupers meek and lowly
Scrabbled for the scraps.
Boris back-slapped his cohorts
Saying: ‘Cripes! Well done, you chaps
We’ve just eaten out to help out
And a thousand quid we paid
But we can put that on expenses
As humanitarian aid.’
Then one old man he cried out
His plate he shoved aside
Saying: ‘You lousy, bloody hypocrites
I can no more abide.’
The flunkeys gazed in horror
Boris’s face went pale
But the old man sternly shouted:
‘Shut up and hear my tale.
‘I had a lovely country pub
The Dog & Duck ’twas named,
Its beer was of the finest
Its ambience rightly famed
Then I served some Scotch eggs
And the Covid cops came round
Saying: “This is no substantial meal”
And the bastards closed me down
‘My son a snack bar built up
O’er many years of toil
He thought he had a future
That nothing could now spoil
Then customers no more came
As work-from-home unfolded
His butties curled, his cakes went stale
And unsold pasties mouldered.
‘My daughter’s fashion store went bust
The lockdown sent trade slipping
Everyone bought on Amazon
(Especially with free shipping).
She tried her best to stay afloat
Even mannequins were furloughed
But nothing she could do or say
Could help to lighten her load
‘Ministers, your cock-ups
Have made our future ugly,
But with pensions, shares, directorships
You’ll all be sitting smugly.
You’re criminally responsible
For one of history’s greatest farces
So take your luncheon leavings
And stick them up your (Coronavirus Act 2020: Redacted by order under emergency powers)
