The Osborne and the Cameron
disturbed the oysters’ sleep:
by saving sandgrains from the strand
they made the oysters weep.
‘Should seven widows give their mites
to us for seven years,
do you think, dear Ozzie, that our debts
would somehow all be cleared?’
‘—Call the knackers,’ he replied,
‘And let them axe
all facts!’
The Osborne popped his bully cork
and struck the wasteful sun -
the oysters barked, so in the dark
he ate them one by one.
‘Should seven virgins save their oil
to balm our troubled brains,
do you feel, dear Clammy, we’d have power
for buses and for trains?’
‘—Control the yackers,’ he opined,
‘who knows, once hacks
relax!’
The Cameron buttered buttered bread,
cut slices from the moon,
and, as the oysters whined, each oik
met with his silver spoon.
‘Should seven single mothers breed
a sprog for seven years,
could they not eat them, Ozzie, sweet,
with lashings of cheap beer?’
‘—Tolls for slackers!’ he announced,
‘let’s tax all sacs
and cracks!’
‘Should seven bankers, shellfish-gorged,
give us the seventh part
of all their profits, Clammy, pray,
would we then give a fart?’
‘—Poll our backers,’ he declared,
‘and then we’ll sack
some clerks…’
The Osborne and the Cameron
dismantled with a pick
the whole sea-bed – and so, though dead,
the oysters made them sick.
Bill Herbert
