Thursday, 23 April 2009

The End

I was watching television
When the picture went astray
And there came a strange transmission:
“The government is sad to say
That there’s been a nuclear fission
In this land we love today
So we’ve made the swift decision
To leave you here and go away.
We bring this message, in our wisdom
Hours later – as you lay
Asleep we were already risen
And halfway on our holiday.
Yes, there’s been a cataclysm
And yes, we would’ve liked to stay
But we thought the best thing isn’t
To remain, and like you pay
The price that radioactivism
Will wreak in your DNA.
Take heart, dear United Kingdom
Tho of sunshine there’s no ray
(Literally, for the frisson
Of the fission caused a grey
Mass to mass up, and all vision
Is, inside a fiery spray,
Lost thanks to this foul emission -
It rose just like a blown ashtray
Or a sudden apparition)
We would still like to convey
Our sorrow, and we do envision
Our return some future day.
Until then, it is our mission
Still to rule the dear UK
Tho we’ll do it from a distant
Base out near the USA.
T’will be hard, but do not listen
To what cynics will convey;
It’s not time now for suspicion,
But to face this sad melee
With the guts befits a Briton
Fighting in a fresh foray.
Challenges there’ll be, so kiss ‘em,
Embrace suffering we pray;
Do not stoop to pessimism -
It’s too late now anyway.
Forgive your local politician,
Think him not a popinjay;
In such times we turn tactician
And must prevent our own decay
In order to aid your condition:
Which we’ll do from this far bay.
Be of cool, calm disposition
And try not to feel dismay
If your skin’s in poor condition
With huge blotches on display.
This is fine, in your position,
And, if you have time, survey
The other people in your vision:
They’re mottled in a similar way.
There might perhaps be a physician
Who, with poultice, can assay
The pain that this swift demolition
Of the skin will cause, but they
Cannot cure it; no magician
Could, so, like a flesh bouquet,
Let each bloody acquisition
Flourish in a red array.
In short, against our own volition
We left, but we did not betray
Your trust: we recommend submission,
Do not make cries of “foul play”.
We have here some ammunition –
So before you speak please weigh
Up your verbal composition;
Every school, house and café,
Has, by a council technician,
Been fitted with a hidden ray
Device, which picks up with precision
Every word; so if you sway
A little left of our petition,
We’ll turn your bodies back to clay.
Now, I must make an admission -
I am late for a soiree.
There will be a fine musician
And a freshly made soufflé.
I leave you then to your new prison.
Please don’t cry, you’ll be okay
As long as you accept tradition:
Us to rule; you to obey.

No comments: