Choice Cuts
The butcher in his pinstripe bib
Prepares his outsize cleaver
And cuts his very suspect jib
And fells trees like a beaver
The barber gives his blade a strop
To slice his client's vein
And with a vaguely practised chop
Removes his sitter's brain
The sous-chef with his set of knives
Eats up the guts for garters
While dicing for the diners' lives
(And that's just for their starters)
The axeman dons his leather hood
Takes off the victim's scarf
Before – it's in the national good –
He whacks the chap in half
The dentist picks a power-saw
And calculates some sums
(He picks the teeth up from the floor
And polishes the gums)
The carpenter – a Mr. Chip –
Has customers who'll grizzle
They watch his laughing craftsmanship
With hammer-head and chisel
The chancre that the surgeon's slashed
Was toxic, ripe and rank –
Financiers, though, their cheques all cashed
Run laughing to the bank
Perhaps you like the depredations
Of a Tory blade?
Well, masochists, let's test your patience –
Time to be afraid
The Chancellor is on his chopper
The public on his pillion
He swerves – so who will come a cropper?
Only half a million
