Gordon Brown's Brain Drain
Whenever I go to my bed it
is filled up with trauma and pain,
and debit (referred to as 'credit')
invades every nook of my brain.
The economy fills me with panic.
The images come in a flood:
with bankers, their faces Satanic,
whose every cheque is a dud.
A pollster, a gun in his holster,
arrives with a terrible figure.
I hide my head under the bolster:
when I peep, he is cocking the trigger.
And all of these rantings and ravings
come nightly, from gargoyles and ghouls.
What is it you've done with our savings?
What happened to all of your rules?
But now Sarah's bought me a tripod
and steadied it, right by my bed,
and on it's a twenty-ton iPod
which plugs itself into my head.
No more of this blood-curdling barney,
no more of this scythe-wielding wraith:
just the strains of the great Mantovani
and some merciful themes (Percy Faith).
Now I dream of a moment of glory,
of a victory great as Obama's,
of the downfall of every last Tory.
I wake in my Superman 'jamas.