Almost Everything Must Go
Everywhere our horse is dead:
It sticks its legs up in despair.
The only thing’s to flog it, said
The government. And while you’re there,
Please put the seaside out to tender,
And sell the birds, and also bees.
We’ve had it. Let us not pretend. The
Moors are auction fodder. Trees,
The streams and burns, the ponds and brooks
Must fetch a price. If there’s a gust
Of wind or breeze, let’s balance books
By offering it to China. Bust,
Let’s also sell the high-class smoke
That rises from our national debt,
And since we are completely broke,
Let’s plant a giant sign TO LET
Upon each mountain and each park,
Upon the towns and cities, too:
Let’s sell the light, and sell the dark,
And sell our selves, the whole bang crew.
But by St. George, when we have sold
The puddle and the British ditch,
And we are starving, rank and cold,
Protect at least the filthy rich.
