Alan Millard ’Twas legislation heaven-sent, A spark of pure enlightenment, That glorious Act of Parliament Which crowned the days of yore: Austerity throughout the land, Delights denied, indulgence damned, The ecstasy of Christmas banned In 1644.
O Cameron, follow Cromwell’s lead And have us all from Christmas freed By legislation which, indeed, Would fervently be backed! We’ve had our fill of Christmas fare, The annual frenzy drives us spare, Restore the law, be Cromwell’s heir And reinstate the Act!
Brian Allgar We, Henry, have a scheme to fill the coffers Of our estate, impov’rished by the greed And profligacy of disloyal scoffers Possessing chambers far beyond their need. The Queen herself hath but a single bedroom, The ceiling low, which causes her to stoop. (Yet soon enough, she’ll have no need for headroom; That pretty neck outstretched, her head shall droop.) Henceforth, an imposition shall be raised On all who have more bedrooms than required. Our Chancellor, good Cromwell, is amazed: ‘Your Majesty, the notion is inspired!’ The Act is just, for we ourselves did frame it, And now decree ‘The Sleeping-Chamber Tax’. But those who would dishonor or defame it Shall have a sev’rance payment — from the axe.
Frank McDonald A stranded sturgeon when it’s seen must be surrendered to the Queen and then what happens to the fish depends upon the royal wish. But what, one wonders, should one do if Nicola comes into view sunbathing on some British beach believing she is out of reach? Should she be ferried from the sands to London, as the Law demands, or thrown back, by those who caught her, into the ocean’s oily water? No doubt she’d make a dainty dish, a first-class fighter of a fish, which, served with haggis to impress, would have her Highness screaming: ‘YES!’
Martin Parker It’s silly to hoard your pension pot; annuity rates are diddly-squat. Now the government’s letting you blow the lot on the latest vote-catching scheme they’ve got.
So, empty your pension pot. Don’t go gently into retirement. Go by Bentley, Rolls, Bugatti or Maserati courtesy of the Tory Party.
Or swap the lot for women and song and a month in the sun on Necker. Just blow the lot. You can’t go wrong, says The Chancellor of the Exchequer
who quick as a flash will snaffle the lot — the reason he’s keen to commend it — by charging you Tax when you cash your pot and VAT when you spend it.
W.J. Webster Green, green the promises Enshrined in statute law; No time for Doubting Thomases In this new holy war. Let fossil fuel be left to lie Untroubled in its bed: In future we’ll use sun and sky To give us power instead. No matter that the sun may dim, Air be as often still, We’ll cater for that interim By force of faith and will. In pious penance as a nation We’ll snare the carbon snark And in our proud self-abnegation Leap into the dark.
SEG Hopkin My dearest one, you know I would adore you To be my princess and my queen some day; I’d love to see the people bow before you, But the Act of Settlement is in the way.
If your divorce were all, we’d be in clover, Since Grandpa Charles has triumphed in the fray; The bigamy is easily got over, But the Act of Settlement is in the way.
Your prison record wouldn’t scare the nation, A PR firm would find that children’s play; Your husband well deserved his immolation, But the Act of Settlement is in the way.
If you had only offered goats to Brahma, It’s no one else’s business how you pray; But since you are a Catholic, my charmer, The Act of Settlement is in the way.
You are invited to submit a poem in praise or dispraise of beards. Please email entries of up to 16 lines to lucy@spectator.co.uk by midday on 4 February.
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