The Ballad of Mar-a-Lago by Chris O’Carroll In the gold of the Florida sunshine, Where gunplay enlivens the air, The rich pay to hang with the richer At the president’s opulent lair.
With its beach-blanket, surfer-dude moniker And its six-figure membership fees, This joint is the acme of classy, Like those White House Seals marking the tees.
This enclave is stately like Vegas, With the gilt of imperial Rome. The Golfer-in-Chief has decreed it His own customised pleasure dome.
He meets here with all the top leaders. He shows them his bombs and his cake. Someone’s sure to be turning a profit On the fabulous deals they all make.
The Ballad of Watford Gap by Bill Greenwell O I have been to Watford Gap And I have passed between its tors And I have eaten many a snack Within its service station doors.
In Watford Gap there dwelt the Saxons – Dwelt also Normans, cruel and coarse: Cars and barges jostle thither Where Watling Street heard Roman horse.
‘O have you been to Watford Gap And is it hard by Patchetts Green?’ ‘Alas, fair maid, beshrew thy maps – A different Watford dost thou mean.’
No sea brims over Watford Gap, No river fills its surly mouth: But Southerners may sense The North And Northerners may greet The South.
The Ballad of Morningside by Brian Murdoch The girls who live in Morningside Are not of slender means, For this is Edinburgh posh; These little girls are queens.
Their dreams are never troubled By things which seem absurd – Of nunneries, or of closed doors.
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