Piggy Song - a poem from your MP

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Piggy Song

I am the MP for Northampton South

My existence is mainly hand to mouth

All the fruits of this wonderful land

Go into my mouth, out of your hand

You scrimp and you save, I know what that means

I use your moolah to butter my beans

I thank the Lord for this garden of earth

I thank him again for the gift of your birth

Too lazy to think, or bother your heads

You just want to drink, and stay safe in your beds

Begrudge me my castle, my KitKats, my moat?

You lurk in allotments, too sluggish to vote

I get to banter and barter and preach

While you dream of futures beyond your reach

I have the power, the glory, the will

You have your leisure, and my hefty bill

I have expenses, they're part of my life

I have horses, and children, and a greedy wife

Her club is Harrods, her tits are divine

As long as there's cash, they will always be mine

She runs the office, employed by the state

To type, make tea, and copulate

She's my PA, my harlot, my friend, and my nurse

Her undies are silk, from the people's purse

I often get lonely, so far from my home

The castle near Scunthorpe, apartment in Rome

Town house in Mayfair, flat in South Ken

I tire of my travels, and now and again

Ski-ing in Verbier, on the beach in Peru

I lay down my snorkel, and I think about you

I'd like to be poor, and hang up my socks

Down by the arches, in my own cardboard box

But my job description is to speak for you plebs

While pounding the flesh of grimy celebs

And cruising the Strand in a luxury car

With cocaine dispensers, and caviar

And boys in white satin, champagne on tap

And cabinet documents deep in my lap

I've read the outlines, no time to read more

Tomorrow is Thursday, we're going to war

Tommy is off on a mission to Hell

He's English and barmy, he does it so well

National Pride has been slipping of late

Soon we must pay him a half decent rate

But this is a cost we shall quickly recoup

By halving his kit, and feeding him soup

The comfort of Tommy is high in our thoughts

We'll send him to battle in T shirt and shorts

As the gunfire rumbles, my belly rumbles too

I wave the people's chequebook, I know just what to do

Hungry little piggy, snozzle in the trough

Snuffle in the truffle, just can't get enough

It's an arrangement of culture and class

You pay for the pleasure of wiping my arse

I salute the Nation, it's you I have to thank

Cos I'm a little piggy, and you're my piggy bank

© Nick Weldon February 2010

Posted via email from nick weldon's posterous