They made a pudding, gave it a name,
Now two repasts are never the same;
No table-head, no Toby Jugs,
No morning kiss, nor goodnight hugs.
Hunting meringues, cold sugar-coated,
Furs of fox, wick-weasel throated.
Institutions in the wolds
Poured strawberries on the whipping folds.
A kitchen cabinet’s full of mugs,
The mugs have mugshots made of thugs,
They bore a mace, wore ermine gowns,
And pasted slogans through the towns.
Ah, they’re cheering cracks of willow paddle!
But underneath the leather saddle
There’s neither lion, nor horse from shire,
But running creases, Truth’s for hire.
It’s butter churned at Corpus Christi,
Though source of Sophistries are misty;
I’d rather pen-portay some anarchy,
Than this Middle England’s apathy
To anaphylactic taxing of our sense,
We’re told its better for defence
Of national interests long since sold;
They’ve got the cure for common cold.