In Competition No. 3283, you were invited to submit ‘A Peer’s Lament’.
There was a smattering of references to Baroness Mone, whose travails prompted this challenge. But of course members of the Upper House have plenty to worry about besides, as winningly detailed in a lively and varied entry that contained echoes ranging from Poe, Belloc, Thomas Hood and W.S. Gilbert to Boney M. The winners earn £25.
By these drivellers of babble-on who wouldn’t weep?
No wonder so many just drift off to sleep
When others talk nonsense that leaves us agog
With claptrap as clear as a thick London fog.
There are those like the ‘Churchill dog’ stuck in a car
Who nod as if listening then rush to the bar.
My mum was a housewife; my dad was out working;
I wasn’t brung up to be waffling and shirking
While claiming expenses like this pompous lot
For just turning up or, in some cases, not!
I’m a grafter, not born with a posh silver spoon
Stuck in my gob and I’m no bloody goon.
If some of these idlers was working for me
They’d be off to some down and out café for tea.
No wonder I weep, they should all have retired,
If I had my way then I’d tell ’em, ‘You’re fired!’
My blood is of the bluest blue.
My pedigree records
A family commitment to
The sacred House of Lords.
By what mad stroke was it possessed
To lose its moral compass
And make itself a rancid nest
Of spivs and counter-jumpers?
We farmed the pasture seasonly
While mining coal beneath it,
To build a noble legacy
Then to our heirs bequeath it.
But now alas we face the threat
Of closure by Keir Starmer,
A sad humiliation, yet
Perhaps that is our Karma.
Boris told me: On you go,
Park your bumsters on the plush –
Natter like a seasoned pro,
Or have a snooze, enjoy the hush:
No one cares, my dear old chum,
If you are one to rage and splutter,
Or one who never joins the scrum,
As silent as a pat of butter.