Blubbercocky from Inhuman Resources by Tom Kingsley

Blubbercocky

When I was young and Santa old
and children did as they were told
I'd dream as swans with wings of gold
flew to the Milky Way.
Behind them pigs would loop the loop
as scented breezes cooled my soup
white elephants would glide and swoop
and whistling, would play.
In rhubard trees they'd build their nests
as politicians combed their crests
and swallowed all the Eton mess
throughout the live-long day.
Nose-candy mountains, hubris too,
had dropped us in an Irish stew
and warm seas with Elysian view
called us to sail away
from truth and credibility
and wise but dull maturity.
Straight to the sirens' call were we
drawn closer every day.
In pea-green boats upon a lake
of Trukazade our thirsts we'd slake
while feasting on some Kobe steak
the magic geese would lay
so we could gorge on golden eggs
as we bestrode the world on legs
made up of malted whisky kegs
we'd flown down from Islay.
Then foaming "champers" at the mouth
we'd stripped the world from north to south
while calling Truth a "blabbermouth"
we'd sing "Callooh! Callay!"
But then the dreaded Blubbercock
we met before we'd taken stock
that nothing was there left to hock
to pay the pipes to play.
We climbed the magic money tree
to sniff the air, to watch the sea,
to spot the luckless refugees
and blame them for the way
our government had stolen all
the nation's wealth and had a ball.
The money tree was left to fall,
it rots there to this day.
Soon nonsense will the last word be
at parties where the mushroom tea
is brewed by madder hats than we.
Let's desperately pray!

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