A Limerick A Day



The City of London

What happens to Britain’s big banks
If they exit? Well let’s ask the yanks
We won’t get as much
As the mercantile Dutch
We’ll get something, for which we’ll give thanks.

John Moynes

Pic: Bigstock

Sponsored Link

4 thoughts on “A Limerick A Day

  1. sǝɯǝɯʇɐpɐq

    No matter what way they might spin it
    With it spiraling beyond the limit
    When the winners are losers
    Beggars cannot be choosers
    They lost the plot. F them, let’s win it.

    Money is great and people don’t matter…

    [BrOutcast Reader’s Voice] : Hang on a minute…. Get your filthy brown hands off my English money…this is not what I thought I was voting for…why did nobody explain this to me BEFORE the referendum? I feel MORE stupid now than I thought I was a couple of weeks ago, and that’s saying something.

    Sorry, got a bit lost there…

  2. Sido

    Here’s some real poetry for you Moynes

    “Blond Boris” by Tachybaptus

    Since the millennium began,
    Blond Boris was Tomorrow’s Man.
    He’d worked his way up to this spot
    By means that many have forgot:
    Eton and Balliol, The Spectator,
    Building up credit to use later.
    A few years at the Telegraph
    Showed he at least could raise a laugh.
    When he was sent to work in Brussels,
    He flexed his Eurosceptic muscles
    In making fun of Jacques Delors
    — Though Conrad Black thought him a bore.

    He tried to be an MEP,
    Stood for a Welsh constituency;
    Two failures forced him to desist
    And to remain a journalist.
    Black moved him on to something greater,
    The editor of The Spectator.
    His stunts drove them to desperation,
    But raised the paper’s circulation.

    Finally tiring of these tricks,
    Boris went back to politics,
    And easily secured a seat —
    Henley, where even the tramps are neat.
    He talked the talk and pressed the flesh;
    His views seemed radical and fresh.
    His reputation as a clown
    And cocksman could not pull him down.

    Just then another prospect beckoned:
    The Mayor of London. As he reckoned,
    The post would raise him to a star;
    A stepping stone, then he’d go far.
    And so it seemed. He beat Red Ken,
    Pinched his idea for bikes, and then
    Commissioned an iconic bus
    — Both of which bore his name — and thus
    Became a major national figure
    Renowned for fun, and words, and vigour.
    When he got stuck on a high wire,
    Somehow it raised him even higher.

    But time was passing. Once so nifty,
    He now was balding, jowly, fifty.
    Two terms as mayor had let things slide;
    He was about to miss the tide.
    He hastily secured a seat
    In Uxbridge. Prospects were less sweet,
    And only a Spectator reader
    Would think him fit for party leader.

    A last chance shone before his eyes
    To win his coveted life’s prize.
    A referendum in a year —
    Gosh! It was time to get in gear.
    But which to choose? He thought Remain
    Would win the day. But yet again,
    The voters never would believe
    One who was once so strong for Leave.
    He dithered for a fatal age
    About which way to take the stage.
    The voters noticed. When at last
    He plumped for Leave, his hour was past.

    When on the day, the Brexiteers
    Had won the vote, the nation’s cheers
    Were all for Farage. Boris then
    Tried to gain plaudits — but again
    He blundered, trying to suggest
    Associate membership as best,
    While the momentum was to make
    A clean, irrevocable break.

    And now he’s missed the bus he made,
    Through having fatally delayed.
    We pity him — but not a lot.
    Moral: strike when the iron is hot.

  3. dav

    great bring more bank spivs into the country, as if the current crowd didn’t do enough damage

Comments are closed.

Sponsored Link