Song: Decline and Fall
(BM = The British Museum)
When language becomes garbled,
The slave of clique and cabal,
And wowsers crow and warble all day.
Will the BM lose it's marbles,
Those bright and shiny baubles;
The glory and the foibles
Of imperial display?
As the wizened gnomes of celtic fable,
Pull their string and turn their table.
Guard their ring and profit global,
And pitch their enterprise...
In a suspect PC milieu,
Commonsense indeed may kill yer,
For a fifteen second sound bite, of fame.
So it's 'boots an' all' in panto,
The world of Punch and Dando.
The disturbing mass psychosis
Of popular acclaim.
And the bankers gather to plot the courses,
Of nations tethered to bucking horses;
And debt demands some noxious choices
For our civil life...
And the kids are sea-sick passengers,
Amidst an adult storm.
They ride it out and manage it,
And huddle close to warm.
For kids are toxic messengers,
That warn of coming plague.
They su*k their prozac lozenges,
And appear a little vague.
Hostage to free market forces,
The poor and weak shall raise their voices,
Lest greed becomes the motive sources
For our civil life...
As gold has lost it's standard,
Paper money is soon abandoned.
And wealth? Genetic credit,
With payment as demanded!
If culture becomes candid,
And we all could understand it,
Would we really hand it, away?
So will the BM lose it's friezes,
To the censors and the caesars,
While the muzac plays a sombre symphony?
Will the BM lose it's bronzes,
To this proto-fascist nonsense?
As the kids su*k prozac lozenges, for tea!
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