Eton Mess

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.

A Nissen Fundoplication

If the same funds poured
Like liquid oxygen
Into the mutual airways,
Into the heaving lungs
And diffused calyxes
Of a nation’s hospitals
As flows into the coffers
Of saints and the pockets
Of sinners, and then also

The unpressured ports
Of safe celebrities,
Humanity probably could
Have procured a cure
For death by now,
But then procurement
For your leaders’ concern
Is always a matter
Of percentages.

Haiku #428 – #431

428.

False economies,
Three million antibodies
Bought but not working.

429.

And children playing
In squares devoid of contact,
This unflinching sleep

430.

PPE unboxed,
Unless it’s at your border,
Who checks the orders?

431.

Elderly afloat,
Yet still the raft-makers gloat
Over the woolsack.